


At the U

by FriendsCallMeTonks



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: AU, College AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendsCallMeTonks/pseuds/FriendsCallMeTonks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I posted this at ff (dot) net a while back, seems like I ought to share it here, too.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this at ff (dot) net a while back, seems like I ought to share it here, too.

August

 

            A second after the alarm starts blaring, Bonnibel slaps it off and sits up. After another second, she remembers where she is. She smiles. As she hops out of bed and starts to get dressed, a loud groan comes from a pile of pillows and blankets on the other side of the room.

            “PB, what the luuuuuump?”

            “Come on, Ellen, time to get up. Last day of orientation! Then we’re real college students.”

            “I told you, call me El, or I’ll call you… whatever your real name is,” Ellen Smith-Pearson moans, rolling more deeply into the bed.

            “The dining hall is only open for freshmen another 30 minutes. Either get up now and get something to eat or get up later and have nothing to eat for four hours.”

            “No lumping way I’m getting out of this bed.”

            “Suit yourself,” Bonnibel replies with a shrug. Dressed now, she leaves the room to go brush her teeth before some breakfast.

 

            Across campus, in a large building nearly devoid of all life at the early hour but full to the brim with paintings, sculptures, and drawings framed on the walls, the floor covered in discarded programs from an avant-garde play performed therein the previous evening, another young woman sits in a small, sound proof room. She rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck, and gives a little kick to the third emptied Red Bull of the night… er, morning. She supposes. The room has no windows and she makes a point of never wearing a watch, so who really knows. But she settles herself and imagines the conductor before her. Tenderly, she lifts the bow to the strings of her cello and starts to play. This time, this time she knows she has it. _Vivaldi, man_ , she thinks, sensing her focus leave her head and chest behind, feeling her thoughts come instead from her fingertips. _You fucking genius_. Sure Bach and Beethoven were amazing. For Marceline, however, Vivaldi just always felt right. As right as anything could feel on a cello.

            For a few minutes after she completed a flawless solo, fought for all night long, Marceline just sits in her chair, basking in it. Then she starts packing things up. Time for some sleep. (/watch?v=uBWsLVsvCoA)

 

            “So hungry,” moans Ellen S-P. _Well, El_ , Bonnibel corrects herself in her mind.

            “I told you so.”

            “Ohmygod, shut up.”

            Bonnibel laughs. She silences herself when the administrator at the front of the auditorium clears his voice, announcing, “All right, time for one last walk across campus. I know you’re all tired from Orientation Week,”—and they were, as the school kept the incoming freshmen busy from 9 in the morning to 11 at night—“but I swear you are almost there. Let’s go.”

            As she and her roommate stand, El whispers, “Will there be lunch?”

            “Usually is,” Bonnie says as they cram in with the thousand other students for the doors.

            As they step outside, the bright summer sunshine reflects off the fountain in front of the building, hitting Bonnibel’s face directly. She scrunches her face up, looks down, blinks rapidly to give her pupils a moment to contract. Other freshmen stream around her, all waiting for some kind of indication from their orientation leaders of where to go, someone to take the initiative to lead. Among the many voices surrounding her, Bonnibel freezes when one, crisp and clear, rises above the din.

            “Well well well, if it isn’t Bonnibel?”

             Internally Bonnie sighs. _Nooooooo_.

            When she looks up, Marceline Abadeer in all her arrogant glory stands there, right in front of her, blocking the sunlight with her tall stature and large, floppy hat.

            “Marceline?”

            “Oh come on, you know it’s me?”

            “Your name is Bonnibel?” El pipes up from beside her. Bonnie throws her a face to make her shush. “You don’t like the name Bonnibel? What the lump, it’s a perfectly fine name. Like oh my god, don’t be a drama queen about your own stupid name.”

            “Thank you, Ellen.”

            “What are you doing here?” Marceline asks, snickering a bit at the exchange between the freshmen.

            “What’s it look like, Marceline? I should ask you the same thing.”

            “I go to school here.”

            “Here.”

            Marcy nods, smiling. She means it kindly, but her sleepy eyes defeat her purpose.

            “Why?”

            “Because a college education is good for you or whatever crap they tell you kids these days.”

            “No, I mean…” Bonnie can’t help it. The words come out before she can take them back, before she really thinks about it. “Why me?”

            Ellen starts to text furiously, her eyes darting between Bonnibel and Marceline. As for Marcy, she turns her head away. She sighs, chews her lip in frustration. Even as the words were coming out of Bonnie’s mouth, she regretted them. She thought certainly she would be leveled, ripped into by an upperclassman in front of the entire freshmen class. But now that Marcy is clearly swallowing her bubbling rage—a kindness—Bonnie regrets her irrational behavior all the more. _Why did I do that?_ she thinks, _I never do that!_

            “This way!” one of the orientation leaders calls, gathering the nearby students around her like lost ducklings. Marcy sees this and turns back to Bonnibel. “So,” she asks, “Wanna ditch?”

            “What?”

            “I know what happens next, it’s totally lame. Wanna actually _see_ some of campus and hear about how things work from a pro? Or would you rather be shuffled to another lecture on the dangers of procrastination?”

            “I can’t skip orientation, this is important!”

            Marceline laughs. “Fine, whatever. Have a grand old time, Bonnie.” She turns to Ellen. “Ciao.”

            With that, Marcy heaves her cello’s case back onto her back and starts to walk away toward the quad.

            “Hey wait!” Bonnie calls out. Marcy turns. “I thought you played guitar?”

            For a few moments, Marcy just stands there on the other side of the fountain, looking back over her shoulder at Bonnie, a smirk slowly rising to her lips. Her unruly black hair dances behind her. Just when Bonnie thinks she’s going to respond, Marcy turns, a sound of amusement on her lips, leaving the freshman feeling snubbed.

            “Whoa,” El says later as the group of freshmen are led off to another lecture hall. “What was all _that_?”

            “All that what?”

            “The drama, woman! Did you not feel the tension? Like everyone was watching!”

            “They were?” Bonnie asks, trying to keep her voice level, even as her fingers nervously reached for her strawberry-blonde hair.

            “Totally! Who was she? How do you know an upperclassman already?”

            “We… we’re from the same town. She used to drive me to school before she went to college.” _I didn’t know she even got in to college_ , Bonnie muses.

            “That’s it? You carpooled?”

            “Yeah, that’s all there is to it,” Bonnie says.

 

            Marcy and her cello cut across a parking lot to the bridge over the train tracks that ran by campus. As she walks over the bridge, she watches the people at the university station mill about below. _Trains are cool_ , she thinks sleepily. _If I had driven, I wouldn’t have to be lugging this thing on my back… but gas money is expensive…_ “And clearly,” she mumbles to herself, “driving sucks.”

            She hadn’t agreed to drive the little brat to school for that crap. Sure, she seemed fine enough for a thirteen year old when the met, shortly after Marcy got her driver’s license, but she just turned into a nightmare. _Fuck her. Spoiled brat._ The memories of their carpool days run together in Marcy’s mind. A lot of it is hard to distinguish. That last time, of course, is a little too easy to recall. But the first time…

 

            _“Come ooooon,” Marcy moans, honking the horn in front of the house. “Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon.” A little thirteen year old steps out, throwing her backpack on with a piece of toast dangling out of her mouth. Marcy gets out of the car, walks around to the passenger side._

_“Hi! Sorry!” the girl says brightly. “You must be Marceline Abadeer… right?”_

_“Not that many of us,” Marcy nods. “And you’re Bonnibel.”_

_“Yes, ma’am!”_

_“Don’t,” Marcy says quickly, “call me ma’am. It’s Marceline or Marcy. Come on, get in.”_

_“Okay.” They both get into the two-seater; Bonnibel adjusts her seat so she sits a little more upright._

_“The middle school, right?”_

_“Yes. Just one more year.”_

_Marcy chuckles, hitting the gas. “I know what you mean.”_

 

            But now, Marcy fishes in her pockets for her apartment keys. Finding them (“Ha!”), she opens the door and starts climbing the stars. As soon as she puts her cello away, she flops down on the couch, unconscious before she can spare Bonnibel another thought.


	2. September

September

 

            Classes have only been in session a few weeks, and yet when Bonnie looks out her dorm window, she thinks the campus looks deserted. Perfect for studying.

            Sitting in the library three hours later, very little has been accomplished. It’s not her fault, she decides. Not only is it absolutely gorgeous out—perfectly visible from the numerous windows around the library—but Bonnie was forced to sign up for a bunch of general education classes this semester. Absolutely no science classes. What the lump? Just because she tested out of a bunch of science and math because of AP credits, her advisor signed her for all _boring_ classes. Seriously, who cares about art history?

            Just then, her phone starts vibrating in her purse. Anxious for something, anything interesting to do, Bonnie picks it up without looking to see who it is.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey Bonnie.”

            “Marceline?”

            “The one and only.”

            “Why are you calling me?”

            “You’re on campus, right?”

            “…Maybe.”

            “Bored?”

            Bonnie sighs. “Yes.”

            “Of course you are. Because every Labor Day this place gets boring. I’m bored, too.”

            Bonnie didn’t respond.

            “Shit, Bon, is it too much to ask that we catch up once? I’m fucking boooooooored.”

            “You don’t have to swear so much, you know.”

            “Oh you sweet innocent baby unicorn.”

            “Shut up!”

            “Haha! Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. Just gimme something to do.”

            “I don’t drink coffee.”

            “God, college is gonna kill you. Fine, I’ll buy you a milk shake or something.”

            “Fine.”

            “Really?”

            “Yes. A study break might improve my productivity.”

            “Whatever. You know Mike’s?”

            “What?”

            “The coffee shop. Just off campus, across the bridge?”

            “I don’t know it.”

            “Of course not. Look just meet me over by the bridge in ten, okay?”

            So Bonnie packs up her bag and sets out for the bridge. When she gets there, Marceline isn’t there. Within a couple of minutes, though, she’s jogging casually around the corner. “Hey, this way!” she says, leading Bonnie across the street. As she marches up the sidewalk, Bonnibel follows, and awkward silence falls upon them. Finally, Marcy stops, pulls open a door. Above, an old painted sign says, “Mike’s Caffeine Station.”

            “Well?”

            Bonnie shrugs her bag again and steps inside. It’s unexpectedly packed.

            “What are you having?” Marcy asks as she follows.

            “Um… How about the hot chocolate?”

            “Isn’t it a little warm out for that stuff?”

            “It’s never too warm for hot chocolate.”

            “Okay.” When it’s their turn in line, Marcy exchanges greetings with the cashier and says, “Can she get a hot chocolate? And just the usual for me.”

            “Absolutely, one hot chocolate and one red-eye.”

            “Keep the change.”

            Finally, they get their drinks and take a seat at a tiny, dirty table.

            “I can’t believe you haven’t been to Mike’s yet. It’s like an institution of the university. Students would riot if they ever closed down.”

            “Good to know,” Bonnibel says simply, holding her hot chocolate to her chest instead of resting it on the tabletop. She takes a sip and, surprised, takes another. Marcy laughs at her.

            “Thought you were too good for a dirt-hole like this, huh?”

            “Nope,” Bonnie says, taking a third sip.

            “Haha! Mmm…” Marcy, too, drinks some of her ‘red-eye,’ whatever that is. “So what brought you here?”

            “To the U?”

            “Yeah. Woulda figured you hated my guts enough to avoid me,” Marceline says, her teeth glinting as she smirks and takes another swig.

            Bonnie glances away briefly. She still feels embarrassed by how… undiplomatically she handled their previous meeting. “Well, as you know, I am very interested in the sciences…”       

            “And logic. Join the chess club.”

            “And,” Bonnibel continues, ignoring the bait, “this school happens to have some of the best research opportunities in the country.”

            “So what’s your poison?”

            “My what?”

            “Your major. That’s what we say once you’ve been around long enough, what’s your poison? You know, what’s your drug?”

            “Oh… uh, I haven’t decided yet.”

            “Really? You?”

            “Me. I’m debating between astrophysics, biomedical engineering, and biochem with a focus on genetics.”

            “Damn,” Marcy exclaims, giving Bonnie a sideways glance that makes her almost feel as if she’s threatening to the upperclassman. “Still a brainlord.”

            “Always.” Marceline chuckles at that. “So what about you? What’s your poison?”

            “I’m a double major. Voice and cello—”

            “Okay stop, this is bothering me. I thought you played guitar?”

            “Bass guitar. And ‘guitar’-guitar, yes, I play it.”

            “But you don’t—?”

            “The music school her isn’t really into my kind of music, okay? And besides, I can play cello, too.”

            “I didn’t know that. Did you play in high school?”

            “Yes. You clearly didn’t look in the back of my car very often.”

            Clearly Bonnie hadn’t.

            After a pause, Marcy continues. “And I minor in political philosophy.”

            “They offer that here?”

            “Haha! No. But sometimes you can create your own major or minor, you know? So I’m throwing together a few philosophy courses, some econ, some political and some history and voila.”

            “Do you like it here?”

            Marcy changes her sitting position, crossing her legs and arms around her. “Well enough.”

            “Really? It’s such a great school, a leader in research the world over and—”

            “And not music.”

            “…Oh.”

            “Don’t get me wrong, the music program isn’t bad, but it’s not particularly strong or prestigious either. Plus our department gets no money. Not like you nerds in the sciences.”

            “So… why did you come here then?”

            “In-state tuition,” Marceline says matter-of-factly. “Plus, _off campus_ , there’s a great music scene. Especially in punk and indie stuff. Upstate has some good folk music history, too, but this city has a lot more going for it for a musician than any school, I think.”

            _So why go to school at all?_ Bonnibel wonders. Somehow, she suspects that would sound patronizing coming out of her mouth, given her track record thus far. “So why political philosophy?” she asks instead.

            Marcy shrugs. “New ideas are good for you,” she states simply. “You gonna minor in anything? German maybe?”

            At that, a familiar twinge pulls at Bonnie’s chest. “No, I… I’m fluent enough in German, but I was thinking of picking a new language up.”

            “Really? Fluent huh? Who taught you?”

            “My mother.”

            “Never knew that.”

            “It doesn’t matter, I’m stuck taking general education classes this first semester.”

            “Oh yeah! I forgot about them, they’re totally lame! Man, I am _so_ glad I’m not a freshman anymore.”

            “Wasn’t it easier than being a junior, though?”

            “Depends on how you look at it.” Marcy tries to take another sip of her drink, but does a double take when she realizes it’s empty. _How long have we been talking, anyway?_ “I’m a little surprised you didn’t go home for the holiday weekend, Bon.”

            “Well why didn’t you?” Bonnie says quickly, avoiding the question.

            “Oh I’m busy tonight. I’m playing bass for a friend’s gig downtown.”

            “Oh.” Bonnie had heard downtown wasn’t safe.

            And then it hits them. The tense silence that can only mean they’re both thinking about the same thing at the same time, and they don’t know how to handle it. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.

            “You know,” Bonnie starts, her voice tiny, “I never said you had to be perfect.”

            Marceline’s face darkens, her eyes narrowed to slits so all Bonnie can see is the deep, dark brown surrounding her pupils. “No. I just had to stop being a total fucking screw up.” Without looking away, she chucks her cup—which lands in the trashcan near the bar—and when Bonnie turns back, Marcy is already leaving the coffee shop.

            Bonnibel sighs. For a moment, she considers going after her, but instead she falls into the familiar comfort of self-righteous defensiveness. So she neatly sets about pulling out her books and her laptop, meaning to finish her homework here that she hadn’t been able to in the library.

 

            Marceline let her tongue loll out of her mouth, getting high off the trembling of the strings against her fingers, off the shadows across the club, off the scream of her bass as her friend cued her for a solo to one of his songs, off the moshing of bodies just in front of the stage. Some folks celebrate Labor Day with a barbeque. She and her kin celebrate this way. With too much beer and too many decibels.

            Later, when Guy is doing some slow piano piece for a little encore at the end of the night, Marcy leans against the bar at the other end of the room, chewing on a Twizzler with a Guinness frosting in her hand. She notices a brunette walking toward her, covered in tattoos and piercings and a very… tasteful dress on. When the woman approaches her, she takes a swig of her beer and smiles.

            “Hey.”

            “Hi.”

            “You a fan of Guy’s?”

            “Sure. Sick bass playing tonight.”

            “Well yeah.” Without breaking eye contact, Marceline pulls another Twizzler out of the pack in her back pocket and starts chewing on it.

            “Is that a—?”

            “Twizzler? Yeah. Want some?”


	3. October

October

 

            It isn’t that Bonnibel can’t handle the workload, the tests, the projects. She can. She just is not entirely sure how. With something more familiar, surely she wouldn’t be struggling. But how do you even study for art history? Let alone African writers?

            So here she is. When she walks in, at first she thinks surely she’s come to the wrong place. She can’t belong _here_. Surely other universities don’t place their academic counseling services in the same place as… well, the other kind of counseling services. The number above the door is correct, though. Tentatively, Bonnie sits in a chair. Within a few moments, however, the hair on the back of her neck is standing on end and her insides are squirming. A girl across the room is sniffling into a tissue box. Three seats down, a boy is wearing all together too many coats, even for the increasingly chill weather. Abruptly, Bonnie stands.

            “Can I help you, miss?”

            She turns. Behind the rather tall divider that separates the secretary’s desk from the students’ waiting area, there sits a tall, elegant young woman with blonde hair, which seems to violently contradict the thick accent Bonnie just heard.

            “Um, is this the right place to be for academic counseling?”

            “Yes,” the woman replies. She glances at her computer screen. “You have an appointment?”

            “I do,” Bonnie says, her skin crawling as the other girl’s muffled crying gets louder.

            “Are you Bo—?”

            “PB is fine.”

            The woman tilts her head, amused. “PB? Is that your nickname? ‘Peanut Butter?’”

            Bonnie chuckles. “No, it’s a nickname I’ve had since I was little. It stands for ‘Princess Bubblegum.’”

            “Princess Bubblegum. I like it. How did you get such a name?”

            “Oh,” Bonnibel says, her voice jumping up half an octave as her smile twitches. “Just a family thing, really.”

            “Hmm. I understand that. I am called Lady.” The secretary extends her hand to shake. Bonnie accepts. “The first time I came to America from Seoul, my homestay family gave me that name.”

            “It’s nice.”

            “Thank you.”

            “So you’re from Korea?”

            “South Korea, yes.”

            “Yes, of course. I asked because I’m taking Korean. The language.”

            “Excellent choice!” Lady causally switches, asks how Bonnie’s day has been going. Once she is certain she’s heard Lady’s quick words correctly, she replies fairly well for a beginner.

            “So, you are having trouble with midterms?” Lady asks, switching back to English.

            Bonnie tries to keep smiling, but she just looks so strained in her attempt that Lady can’t help but laugh. “I understand that, too.”

            “Are you a student here?”

            “Yes; I am a fourth-year. Midterms are unpleasant.”

            Bonnie whispers, “Yes they are.” Lady suspects the student before her even whimpered, but it was hard to tell.

            “Do not be sad! I am certain you will do very well on your examinations. What are you seeing the counselor about?”

            “It’s just… I’m a scientist!” Bonnie blurted out, a little unsure of why she was trusting this senior but also relieved to finally tell someone her secret. “I am very intelligent, I know I am! But I do not understand art history, or the literature of Nigeria, or,” she says, adding a bit of a snort, “introduction to religious studies.” Her figure slumps against the desk barrier. “But if I don’t figure these out soon, my GPA is going to tank the first semester! That can’t happen, it just can’t!”

            Bonnie shivers, a little disgusted by how emotional she’s getting. Granted, from Lady’s perspective, she’s holding up fairly well compared to some of the students she meets on a regular basis in this office.

            “You say you are very intelligent. Valedictorian in high school?”

            Bonnibel nods.

“All you need is a good tutor who can show you how to study properly for each subject, as each department emphasizes different criteria,” Lady says calmly, reassuringly. She gently places a hand on Bonnie’s forearm. “You will be okay.”

“Really?” Bonnie says. She feels like she’s croaking.

“Yes.” Lady reaches for a post-it note and a pen, jots down some numbers. “Here. I have friends who can help you. I find fellow students to be the best resource in this situation. And the last one is my number if you need further help. You do not even have to speak to the counselor if you do not wish.”

The look Bonnie gives Lady convinces the secretary work-study that this last sentence was exactly what she wanted to hear. What can she say? Lady has worked at this desk long enough to know that sometimes getting help requires baby steps. She smiles.

Taking the sticky note like it carried the cure to cancer on it, Bonnibel remains speechless for a moment. Then, a little loudly, she says, “Thank you!” And darts out of the suffocating room, leaving Lady amused. For once, Bonnie texts Ellen first.

            PB: I am not going to this apptmt.

            LSP: WHUT?! BUT UR FAILING AH!

            Bonnibel sent a series of texts rapidly, one after another, explaining that counseling services are stupid (although secretaries aren’t so bad) and that she has a new plan that will deliver her to the top of the class in no time. No time whatsoever.

 

            “I am going to strangle Lady. You have got to be kidding me.”

            Bonnie sits down stiffly at the table in the study room across from Marceline, her thick books thumping against the wood. She had seen that impossibly long black hair in a lazy ponytail from the other end of the hall of library study rooms and knew immediately what she’d gotten herself into. _Note to self: Do not arrange tutoring session via text message._

            “Are you going to help me or not?”

            “You still paying?” Marceline asks, keeping her red boots on the table between them and ignoring Bonnie’s clear discomfort at the length of her skirt.

            “Yes.”

            Marceline gracefully moves, suddenly sitting beside Bonnibel instead of across, and sitting with good posture to boot. “Then I’m all yours. So, what’s your beef with art?”

            Bonnie gives her a sideways glare. “I have no ‘beef’ with art.”

            “Don’t lie, I know you think it’s stupid.”

            “I do not think art is stupid. It makes important contributions to society and its creators.”

            “Such as?”

            Bonnie purses her lips, her brow furrowing in deeper concentration, until she utters a frustrated groan and lets her forehead fall to the table.

            “And that is why you’re going to fail, Princess.”

            “Princess? Really?”

            “Don’t think I forgot you and your brother’s gum thing.”  
            “Let’s not talk about my brother right now,” Bonnie says roughly. “Are you going to help me or not?” she repeats, turning her face and watching her antagonizer from the corner of a watery eye.

            Without a word, without even looking up, Marceline opens up one of Bonnie’s textbooks. Raising a brow and grinning dangerously, she says, “Let’s get shit done.”

 

            Five hours and a vending machine attack later, Bonnie sits with her face down in the a textbook, abandoned soda cans and emptied bags of candy strewn around her. Marceline paces leisurely, occasionally pausing to lean against the wall or table. “So,” she says. “Knowing Professor Tashma, there will be an extra credit essay that could really save your ass in dire circumstances. Always write the extra credit essay, no matter how good you think you are. Do it.”

            “Too much art. Can’t compute further input. Low battery.”

            “Shush. For an intro class like this, she’ll ask you to talk about a particular artist. You know, some bio stuff, examples of works, innovations, more junk. I think you should write about Caravaggio.”

            “Car-a-what now?”

            “Caravaggio. We covered this, who was he?”

            “Another Italian.”

            Marceline sighs, grasps Bonnibel’s shoulder and forces her to sit up. “Come one, you’re almost there and you’ll totally stiff me if you don’t pass, so focus.”

            “I’d do no such thing, I have integrity you know.”

            “Bullshit. So Caravaggio—“

            “Wait what?”

            “Was a bad ass for many reasons.”

            “Why him?”

            “Because he’s the best. Remember these basics: One, his models were pulled in from the street. _Nobody_ did that back then. Like, when church peeps saw their commission for the first time and it’s like, ‘That’s the corner prostitute, but he’s painted her as Mary,’ can you imagine their faces? Right. Second, he painted immediately. No prep work. Again, _nobody_ did that. Because it’s batshit crazy, but he was so immensely talented he could do it. And because of that, he could do numero tres…”

            Bonnie stares blankly at Marceline.

            “We _covered_ this!”

            “Unh.”

            “It kinda almost rhymes with his name…?”

            “Nope.”

            “CHIAROSCURO!” Marceline shouts. “Italian for light-dark or whatever! His heightened use of chiaroscuro, called tenebrism. Using high contrast to create a hyper-real sense of volume and space. It was brilliant!” Her enthusiasm briefly brings Bonnie back to the present. “It’s like he pulled lightness from the dark, one layer of paint at a time, until you get these masterpieces—” her long fingers are searching the pages of the textbook until she finds _Conversion of Saint Paul_ and _Judith Beheading Holofernes_ , with _The Calling of Saint Matthew_ on the opposite page—“and I mean… Bon, how can you not see the beauty in this?” Marceline licked her lips. The motion brings Bonnie’s eyes to her face, and she realizes that Marceline must be exhausted, too. She hadn’t agreed to this much time when they first arranged the study session. Surely she had other things to do.

            “How do you know Lady?”

            “All the Asians know each other.”

            “Oh.”

            “I’m kidding.”

            “Oh… Are you Korean, too?”

            “She’s South Korean, and no. You know my family’s Thai.”

            “Did I?”

            “You know, for such a brainlord, you don’t pay much attention to anything around you. Ever.”

            Bonnie swallows, looks away. She wants to be angry, defensive, but how could she justify being defensive about forgetting a childhood friend’s ethnic background? Really it was bad enough that she asked.

            Marceline sighs. “I think you’ll pass.”

            “Really?”

            “Just memorize the paintings. And actually look at them. Pay attention. Pretend they got genetic code written all over them if you have to, just pay attention. And seriously. Caravaggio. He’s the shit.” She rolls her shoulders. Grabs her bag. She’s leaving.

            “Marcy!”

            “Sawadekaaaaa…” Marceline says, a false greeting. Just has to rub it in that she _forgot her ethnicity_. She smirks at Bonnie, knowing all too well that she can successfully get under her fronts, her masks, her skin.

            “Thank you. Okay? Thank you for helping me.”

            “Don’t thank me, you’re paying me.”

            “Yes I am, right now in fact,” Bonnie says, reaching for her own bag.

            “Really?” Marcy asks, turning back to face the girl— _woman now, I guess_ —in a pink skirt and pink sweater vest and pink _ugh_.

            “Here,” Bonnie says, handing over several bills from her wallet. Marceline counts.

            “That’s ten more than we agreed.”

            “And you stayed a lot longer than we agreed. If anything I owe you another ten.”

            They share a short glance across each other’s eyes. It’s brief, but sharp, and they both look away quickly, embarrassed but also grateful.

            “Why are you tutoring anyway? You never seemed like a teaching type.”

            “I’m full of mysteries,” Marceline says, pocketing the cash and sticking out her tongue. But she laughs. “You know, just making ends meet.”

            This doesn’t make sense to Bonnibel. She is still pondering it as Marceline turns again to leave, when she says—not to Marceline, but thinking aloud—“That makes no sense! Your family’s got a ton of money, your dad is—”

            “Yeah well,” Marceline calls back over her shoulder, jogging now because she can see the shuttle across campus getting close to her stop outside, “I’m just full of mysteries.”

            This time when she says it, Bonnibel shudders.

 

 

PB: Lady! You didn’t tell me the AH tutor was Marceline Abadeer!

Lady: Do you know each other?

PB: Yes! And not in a nice way!

Lady: Really? You sure?

PB: Of course I’m sure!

Lady: Because she asked me to invite you to her Halloween party.

PB: ?

Lady: How did your AH test go?

PB: A-

Lady: (: click here that’s a link to a event of Facebook. You are invited!

PB: she’s not joking? pranking me?

Lady: Had not thought of that. She is very prankster. But no. Her Halloween parties are legend-wait for it-dary, but only friends invited

 

 _What the actual lump?_ Bonnie thinks, sneaking one more glance at her phone before putting it away for her religions class.

 

PB: She could have invited me herself. She has my phone number.

Lady: M very old fashioned

 

Perhaps she doesn’t put the phone away immediately. Her brow furrows at Lady’s text. _Lady wouldn’t prank me. She wouldn’t do that to any freshman… She’s not setting me up. There’s no evidence to support it; you don’t hang out with someone for weeks just to prank them at someone else’s party…_ _Do you?_ Lady and she had become quite close in a relatively short amount of time. Maybe Lady liked being able to teach someone about the university instead of always being treated as an ignorant foreigner, maybe Bonnie appreciated honest, critical feedback on her thoughts and ideas about the systems of the university (“Why the liberal arts even exist is just beyond me!” she had once proclaimed, which Lady swiftly though kindly rejected.) and the world in general.

After thinking it over a long while—long enough that she actually wonders if she should start paying attention to the lecture—Bonnibel feels her phone vibrate again in her jeans pocket.

 

Lady: If you attend, you meet my boyfriend Jake (:

PB: ok I’ll go

 

 

            _“Don’t be nervous,” Marcy says through a yawn. She brakes a little quickly when a light ahead turns green, sending Bonnie into the tight, painful embrace of her seatbelt. “Oh, sorry dude.”_

 _“How can I possibly_ not _be nervous, Marceline?”_

_“It’s just high school! Hey, I’m starting my third whole year there, they haven’t killed me yet!” Marcy grins. “Not for lack of trying.”_

_Bonnibel just turns a shade greener._

_“Hey hey, calm down. It’ll be great. You’ll learn all sorts of cool stuff, there are lots of clubs you can join, and every spring the seniors prank the administration and it’s rad. Really.”_

_Bonnibel doesn’t reply._

_“Do you think your brother is going to like middle school?”_

_“Certainly. He enjoys education as much as the next person.”_

_Marcy snickers. “Hate to tell ‘ya this, Bon, but the next person doesn’t usually enjoy school as much as your kin.”_

_After a moment, the pair eases into the silence of the early morning. As the aging red VW Beetle turns the last corner, with the high school parking lot in view, Bonnibel whispers a question: “Are they going to beat me up?”_

_Marceline looks at Bonnie incredulously. “Are you kidding me? You’re Princess Bubblegum! They beat you up, that’s like… a crime. They’d have to answer to the guards.”_

_“Who’re the guards?”_

_“Oh… me… and the wrestling team.”_

_“You’re on the wrestling team?”_

_“No. No, but I am in the jazz band and orchestra, and most of them of older brothers on the wrestling team,” Marcy replies. For Bonnie’s sake, she skips mentioning that she taught the current captain of the team a lesson a year ago for which she had to serve a suspension._

_“So… you’re willing to defend me?”_

_“Sure!”_

_“Because we’re friends?”_

_As she parks the car in the lot by the woods behind the building, Marcy smiles. “Yeah,” she says, reaching over and mussing up Bonnie’s hair. “We’re friends.”_

 

 

            “Ohmygodohmygodohmyfuckinggod PB! We are actually going to an upperclassman’s _partay!”_ Ellen screeches as she and Bonnibel cross the bridge from campus to the outside world.

            “Yes, we are, but let’s not be dramatic about it.”

            “You’re right, you’re right, we gotta be cool!” El S-P says, visibly forcing her body to relax. Bonnie smiles. As they walk along, she chances a glance down at her costume. Once Bonnie, checking with Lady ahead of time, invited Ellen to the party so she wouldn’t be the only freshman, the pair had agreed to be princesses at this party. Bonnie thought it would improve their confidence in a possibly hostile environment. El thought it would be hot. Their individual costumes reflect this: Bonnie is wearing her best dress ( _Who says you can’t re-wear your prom dress?_ she thinks smugly) with a cheap plastic tiara; meanwhile, Ellen is essentially wearing a two-piece clubbing outfit that might honestly be more appropriate at the beach and a three-tiered crown. But even Bonnie has to admit, Ellen is making it work.

            “Hold on, hold on!” El says just as Bonnie is about to hit the apartment buzzer. It’s a relatively small building with only ten units, she observes.

“What is it?” Bonnie asks.

“Just need to smooth out my lumps,” Ellen replies shakily.

“You’re what?”

“My nerves! God woman, pay attention to slang!”

“Whatever,” Bonnie says. She presses the buzzer.

After a moment, a male voice and several background noises filter in through the scratchy intercom. “Who is it?”

“We’re here for Marceline’s party.”

“Yeah, and everyone else.”

“We’re… Bonnibel… and LSP.”

“Okey dokey!” he says surprisingly cheerfully. “Come on up!”

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” El whispers as she opens the door.

“Chill your lumps.”

Once they reach the fifth floor, Bonnie knocks. If she’s completely honest with herself, she hopes that no one hears above the music inside.

            “PB!” Lady-dressed-as-a-pirate squeals as she opens the door. She embraces Bonnibel happily and Bonnie returns the gesture in earnest. “I am so happy you have come. And you must be El,” she says, turning to the young woman in purple. They shake hands. “Very nice to meet you. I am called Lady.”

            Ellen is too flabbergasted that an upperclassman seems excited to see them to respond.

            “Come in! We have a lot of food on the table. Marceline did trick-or-treat earlier and the candy is in the big bowl by the windows. And I believe you two are two young to drink legally, yes?” Lady says. “But should you choose, know you are with friends. It is very safe, we will watch out for you.” She smiles. El’s jaw drops, and Bonnie can’t help but laugh because even though she’s clearly over the moon, she is _still_ very fetching in her princess outfit.

            “Thank you, Lady.”

            “Captain Lady!” she corrects, pointing to her eye patch and sharpie-mustache happily.

            “So where’s this Jake of yours?” Bonnie asks, looking around the apartment. In a quick glance, she sees this is more of an intimate affair than she had envisioned. Standing at the entrance, she can see the large, open floor-plan of the kitchen, dining area, and living room only has about 20 or so people milling about. She had imagined strobe lights and Dixie cups where instead there are glasses of wine, ceramic platters laden with homemade treats, and lots of toy witches and vampires hanging from the ceiling. Under all the decorations, she can see the wooden floors are very worn, as are the brick walls, and some pipes hang exposed from the ceiling… but framed pictures and odd knick-knacks litter the place. All in all, it feels very warm.

            “Jake!” Lady calls, looking around.

            “Bacon pancakes!” a male voice replies. From the other side of the room, a tall blonde man—the one who rang them in by the sound of his voice—comes bounding over to Lady. A tall blonde man dressed as Maria from _The Sound of Music._ Before he says anything more, he places a chaste kiss on Lady’s cheek. “She made me bacon pancakes, Lady!”

            “See? She is not so scary!”

            “She is, too!” Jake says defensively, his voice deepening at least an octave. “Who is this?”

            “I’m PB. Pardon me, but have we met before?”

            “Huh,” Jake says, tilting his head. “You do look familiar. What’s PB stand for?”

            “Um…”

            “Princess… Bubblegum?”

            “Yes.”

            “You babysat my kid brother!” Jake cries, pointing. “We’re from the same hometown!” He smiles, giddily hoping from one foot to another.

            “Oh you’re right!” Bonnie exclaims. Lady looks absolutely ecstatic that they know each other. “How old is Finn now?”

            “Almost fourteen,” Jake says proudly. “You know what sports team he joined when he got to high school?”

            “No what?”

            “Fencing!”

            “No way! I always thought he’d go in for football!”

            “Me too, but he’s way serious about it. And at first he sucked, you know, but sucking is the first step toward being kind good at something, I told him, and…”

            For a while, Jake and Bonnie chat away, happy as larks to find someone at this school who knows about their small hometown. At first, Bonnie fears she’s abandoned Ellen, but later sees she’s doing quite nicely with a young man on her own. Jake talks about being a senior in college and facing a bad economy upon graduation, Bonnie updates him on all the latest high school drama. He also introduces her to some of the people there: Brad, Guy, Keila, Augustus (“I prefer Bongo”), Mary-Berry, Shelby, and a pair of twins dressed in bed-sheets as ghosts, but Bonnie can’t remember their names. There are others, too, but they’re dancing. Jake even commiserates with her over the general education requirements of freshman year, but surprises her when he says he’s a music major.

            “Viola,” he says, nodding. At this point they’ve moved back towards the food. “So I’m really screwed when I graduate.”

            “Is that how you know Marceline?”

            “Oh no. We knew each other in high school, when I was on the wrestling team,” Jake says with a shudder.

            “Are you scared of her?”

            “No! Haha maybe a little. She makes quite a first impression.”

            “I’ll say.”

            “But she is really not that bad. Her pranks are fierce though.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yeah, she like invented this university tradition for the ages for April Fools’ Day, just wait ‘til next semester, PB!”

            “Did you hear what she did for her senior prank?”

            “No, what?”

            “Apparently all of the other seniors were too scared to do a prank that year because we’d just gotten this new principal who was really uptight. Too this day, no one knows how she did it—they couldn’t find her on any of the video cameras, none of the security guards saw her—but somehow she got an entire car into the school commons.”

            “What?! There isn’t even a door big enough—”

            “I know.”

            “Whose car?”

            “Apparently it was a junker abandoned by the highway.”

            Jake could barely contain a scream of approval. “Oh man! Oh man! That is just! So! Oh!” After he stops laughing, which takes a while, he nods approvingly. “Wow… But yeah, we do see each other in the arts center pretty often. It ain’t easy what she’s doing, two music majors at once.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Aw, majoring in an instrument is hard enough—every semester you have to do a solo performance for an hour in front of a panel of judges that decides if you get to stay in the program (and they might cut you just for not liking you, and at least two of the cello professors that judge Marcy _hate_ that she’s a rocker, you know?)—but then there’s the senior recital coming up for us both. She’s finishing her voice major a year early, you know, to get it all done in four years for her scholarship, but voice is extra hard because you have to learn all these languages so you can sing the operas and—“

            “The what?”

            “When the fuck did you get boobs?”

            Bonnibel whirls around at the familiar voice. Right beside her stands Marceline, looking almost offended, ironically enough.

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Dude just. Dude! You’re supposed to be thirteen and you’re not! Fuck! Don’t get all older!”

            “Are you drunk?”

            “No no,” Jake says, “This is normal.”

            “I am a little drunk,” Marceline says, smiling at Jake. “But I’m done for the night, just water here on out. By the way, how’re them pancakes?”

            “Amazing!”

            “Good. Go eat some, lemme talk to the princess here.”

            Jake obediently scurries away to Lady, waving and smiling back at Bonnie. When Bonnibel looks back to Marceline, she’s coaxing her over to the enormous candy bowl by the windows.

            “Did you actually go trick-or-treating?”

            “Hell yeah! Free candy!” Marceline says, pulling out a 100 Grand bar and chomping on it despite her expertly manufactured vampire teeth.

            “Didn’t you always dress up as a vampire back home, too?”

            “Don’t judge, it’s the best costume ever! I’ll admit though, your get-up is good, too. Besides, if I recall correctly, you _love_ candy.”

            “It’s just my prom dress and crown.”

            “Prom _crown_?”

            “Yes.”

            “As in prom _queen_?”

            “Yes.”

            “Shit, Bon! What happened in three years while I was gone?” Marceline says smiling.

            Bonnie has to look away; she can’t smile about it. “A lot,” she says quietly, looking out the window instead of at her hostess. “Oh! Wow, you can see all of campus from here.”

            “Hm? Oh yeah. I like the view out of the bedroom better though, you can see downtown.”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, here I’ll show you.”

            Bonnie suddenly feels invasive… and invaded by the invitation. But Marceline is already hopping over the couch and gracefully dodging friends dancing in the direction of the far wall. Deciding it would be undiplomatic to abandon one’s hostess, Bonnibel follows.

            Marceline ushers her in quickly and shuts the door fast.

            “Oh! Hello there,” Bonnie says when a wet nose and happy yip greets her.

            “That’s Schwable,” Marceline says. Bonnie happily pets the white dog. “He’s a poodle mix. A real sweetie-pie, so you’d love him.”

            “Hi Schwable.” Bonnie rubs behind his ears and immediately earns a happy lick. “Are you Marcy’s dog? Are you her friend? Why aren’t you at the party?”

            “Can’t have him eating chocolate,” Marceline responds. “Now are you looking or not?”

            Bonnie looks up. “Oh.”

            The room only has enough space for a queen-size mattress—which rests messily on the floor—and a dresser, but Marceline is right: The view is amazing. Almost the entire far wall is a window, shimmering with lights from the city. Lights of other Halloween parties and doors opening to trick-or-treaters. And Marceline is standing right in front of it, silhouetted in her purple dress, striped tights, and red boots against the city’s glimmer, her long raven hair as disheveled and alive as ever. In that moment, Bonnibel remembers how they parted years ago, how everything fell apart shortly thereafter, and the beauty of the moment next to the pain of a lost friendship makes her ache.

 


	4. November

November

 

            “Remind me to never drink again,” Ellen groans on November the first.

            “You do not have to ask twice,” Bonnie groans back. _Thank science for Sundays_ , she thinks.

            After seeing the city from Marcy’s window, the Halloween party had only gotten better. El and Bonnie, under Lady’s watchful eye, decided one glass of wine wouldn’t kill them. Nor two. Nor more. Eventually Lady switched out their wine for water and encouraged them to dance it off. That they did, more or less, until Marceline treated her friends to a few solo songs with her bass, which turned into a few more songs with Keila on her guitar, which turned into a bit of a rock fest. When her neighbors showed up, Bonnie had feared the worst, but they wound up just joining in. Bonnie vaguely remembers Marceline driving the two freshmen back to their dorm around three in the morning. She thinks it was that same beat up old red Beetle.

            For the rest of the day, Ellen and Bonnie hide in their dorm room, eating ice cream and cheerios, watching reruns of _Doctor Who_ and _Bill Nye the Science Guy_ , and swearing to each other to never drink again. Until they’re 21.

 

            For most of November, Bonnie studies. More than a few nights are spent holed up in the library with El and Doritos or Lady and she-doesn’t-even-want-to- _know_ -what-those-textbooks-are. It dawns on her that just because mid-terms are over does not mean that the time leading up to finals will be more relaxed. If anything, it’s worse. So she studies and pleads with any god that might exist that she might get to take a science course next semester.

            As for Marceline, November is extremely stressful.

            “Marcy?” Keila says, finding her Thai friend curled up on a ratty couch backstage one night. “What are you doing?”

            “Relearning Italian,” Marceline croaks.

            “Is this really the time?”

            “Voice boards. They’re gonna cream me. Cello’s gonna cream me too but voice is going to _kill_ me. And I still haven’t reviewed De Tocqueville for my philosophy of democracies class.”

            Keila glances at the clock hanging precariously on the wall above Marceline’s head. _Ah fuck the time_.

            “Look, Marce,” she says, sitting down beside her, “I know college is stressful.”

            Marceline looks close to tears as she glances away from her pile of music sheets to Keila.

            “And I know I’m just a black girl who ain’t never going to college—“

            “Shut up! You are so much more than that, don’t you fucking dare!”

            “Right, see? And without college. And so are you. Even if they cream you, life will go on.” She pauses. “And I know for a fact you like being on this kinda stage a helluva lot more than them stupid concert halls they got at your school.”

            Marceline sighs. But she gets a look in her eye that puts Keila on her guard for hijinks. “You sure you’re straight?”

            “Fuck you.”

            “That’s the idea.”

            Keila takes one of the sofa cushions and whomps Marceline right in the face, laughing. “Get you sorry ass out on that stage now!” She starts to tickle her.

            “I’m going, I’m going! Please stop!” Marcy begs. “Mercy! Mercy!”

            “Huh?”

            “Mercy!”

            “Oh sorry, I thought you were saying your name, haha! Seriously, though, it could be a lot worse.”

            “That’s true,” Marceline says, eyeing an abandoned newspaper beside her.

            “What is it?”

            “They’re freaking out over that thing that happened with Iran.”

            “Still?”

            “If it doesn’t slow down, I’m telling you…”

            Keila looks nervous.

            “If we bomb that tiny town on the border, even a drone, it’ll be an international disaster. Russia, China, Brazil, everybody will get involved. It’ll be a mess. And who do you think will be making green off selling the bombs?” she adds with a bitter sneer.

            Before Keila can respond, Marceline stands up and goes hunting for her bass.

            It ends up being a good night. The band plays well and to an enthusiastic crowd. When it’s time for an encore, Keila tells Marceline to do one of her own songs.

            “Dude, naw, this is your concert, they came for you.”

            Keila marches up to her mic. “Hey y’all, listen up! This bass player here, Marceline Abadeer—” The crowd cheers. “—Is pretty phenomenal, am I right?” More cheering. “And guess what? She’s gonna sing y’all one of her _own_ songs for an encore, so you better listen up!”

            “I hate you,” Marceline says to Keila, laughing giddily as steps up to the mic with her bass. Keila sticks out her tongue, but cheerfully sits on her stool by her mic, signaling that she intends to play back up.

            With a cocky grin, Marceline looks out at the crowd. “Hey monsters.” _Oh they like that_ , she thinks, hearing a couple hundred people roar. “This is a little song I wrote called, ‘I’m Just Your Problem.’”

 

            As Marcy and Keila are packing their gear into her car, she hears her cell phone ring.

            “Bonnie?” she says with a hint of confusion when she answers.

            “Hi Marcy,” Bonnie says. She sounds really cheerful for this time of night.

            “Uh… what’s up, chicken butt?”

            “Huh? Oh, um, I was wondering if you were going home for Thanksgiving. Because I was thinking of buying a bus ticket, you know, but if you were driving, I thought maybe I could get a ride?” Bonnibel speaks quickly.

            “Um…” Marcy starts, stepping away from the car with a wave to Keila. “Actually I’m not,” she says quietly.

            “Oh. Okay then.” Marceline grimaces. Sure, Bonnie sounds okay, detached, and whatever, but she knows better.

            “Look, I’m doing Thanksgiving with a family friend here in town. If I were going back I’d totally drive you, for reals, but this guy is really important to me.”

            “Okay. So who is this guy?”

            “You don’t believe me when I say he’s a family friend?”

            “Why shouldn’t I?”

            _You little liar_. “Bon, I haven’t dated dudes since high school.”

            “Oh.”

            Marceline relishes the following silence on the other end of the phone, letting Bonnie squirm with her judgmentalism. Finally, she has mercy. “I’m visiting Simon. He’s my godfather. He took care of me… when I was little and my folks traveled a lot. For work. Anyway, he’s got alzheimer’s now, and I’m gonna see him.”

            “Oh,” Bonnie squeaks.

            “Did I just overwhelm you with personal information, Bonnibel?” Marcy half-sings.

            “No! I’m fine, you’re fine.”

            “Because I know you don’t really like feelings and personal stuff.”

            “I’m fine, Marce.”

            “Like heaven forbid you actually get to know people instead of just pretending to be nice and—“

            “Marceline, I hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving with your godfather.”

            “Simon.”

            “Simon.”

            “Next time.”

            “Next time what?”

            “I’ll drive you home,” Marcy says, walking back toward the car now, “Like over winter break or something.”

            “Very well,” Bonnie replies. “Good night.” She hangs up.

            Marcy blows her hair out of her face. “Dammit, now I actually have to drive her.” As she reaches down to put the last bundle of cables in the back of the car, Keila smirks at her.

            “So who was that?” Keila asks.

            “No one.”

            “Booty call!”

            “No! She’s some chick I used to carpool when she was a kid. You remember Bonnie from Halloween?”

            “School girl fantasy then?”

            “Screw you.”

            “Haha, you just wish _you_ were getting screwed.”

            “Shut up.”

 

 

            _“Why do you give a shit about those guys?” Marcy asks, taking the long way back from school because the short way floods during storms like this._

_“Marceline, don’t say that.”_

_“What? Shit?”_

_“Yes, that.”_

_“What’s wrong with shit? Everybody shits. Everybody shits everyday!”_

_“Marceline, stop it!”_

_“Or what? Look all I’m saying is I know those people—”_

_“I think I know my friends better than you do, Marceline.”_

_“And I know they can seem really sweet and dress like candy for fuck’s sake—”_

            _Bonnie pulls a face like she’s going to retaliate._

_“But I am telling you, they are not as sweet as they seem. You wanna make friends who stick with you through thick and thin, hang out with the weirdos and outcasts.”_

_“Like you?” Bonnie sneers. The car jerks in the rain and for a moment Bonnibel is legitimately frightened. She chances a glance over at the driver at a red light._

_“Yeah, like me.”_

_“Pfft! I just don’t get you, Marceline.”_

_“What, ‘cause I don’t want to be student body president or preen about like an ass at homecoming?”_

_“They do not preen!”_

_This time, Marcy pulls a face._

_“Okay they preen a little. Look, Marcy just… let me do this high school thing my way. Let me experiment okay?”_

_“You experiment?” Marcy scoffs._

_“Allow me to rephrase: It’s freshman year. Let me make my own mistakes.”_

_After a few moments consideration, Marcy sighs, then nods._


	5. December

December

 

            Marceline sits in an empty hallway, rocking herself back and forth on her chair while her fingers nervously pick at each other. She tries to distract herself by looking at the news on her phone, but it only stresses her even further. Considering last night was the first time she had slept in three days, she feels painfully aware of everything around her.

            Finally, a door down the hall opens. A group of five professors exit. A few mill about, but one or two starts making their way in her direction. She stands. It’s a long hallway, and she’s fairly certain she’s the last music major on campus. Blood rushes past her ears.

            The first professor, unsurprisingly, walks right past her. Marceline sticks her tongue out behind his back. The second professor, however, is her academic advisor. About ten paces from her, he stops. With tears rising to her eyes, she lifts her hands to her face as though in prayer.

            Slowly, he smiles and shows her a thumbs up. “You sang beautifully, they couldn’t have failed you no matter how hard they tried.”

            “HAHA!” she laughs, ecstatic, as she runs up and hugs the tired man with the force one would expect from a lion attack. Tonight she will finally, truly sleep!

 

            _“I cannot BELIEVE you!” Bonnibel screams, yanking on the steering wheel to force Marceline to pull over._

_“Hey hey hey, not like that!” Marcy screams back, because in all honesty Bonnibel is doing a better job of forcing them towards oncoming traffic. Quickly, she regains control from the sophomore and pulls over properly under the overpass. Bonnie gets out of the car. “Hey wait!”_

_“No!”_

_Marcy swears under her breath and goes after Bonnie, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car. “Hey just listen for a second.”_

_“No you listen! Don’t you ever, EVER even think about driving me anywhere drunk again!” Bonnibel shouts as she starts marching away._

_“Bon, it was one drink. One drink, I’m totally fine. Chill.”_

_“Chill?!” Bonnie asks incredulously, finally turning around to face Marceline. One drink huh? Gee, I wonder why I doubt that.”_

_“Okay, fine, I’m sorry I just lied, but I’m not drunk, I’m fine!”_

_“What is the matter with you? This is not okay, not ever!”_

_“I know, I’m sorry. I am.”_

_“What’s with you lately?” Bonnie sneers, crossing her arms and jutting her nonexistent hips out like some kind of diva._

            _“What’s ‘with’ me?”_

_“You’re always late picking me up from school,” Bonnie starts._

_“Not my fault your precious student government never lets out at the same time. Or cheerleading. Or math-quiz-team thing.”_

_“Your car reeks.”_

_“It’s not that bad.”_

_“It’s weed, Marceline.”_

_“And pad thai,” Marceline snickers. “I made a really bad batch, Bon, you should have tasted it—”_

_“This isn’t a joke!”_

_“Weed’s not that bad.”_

_“Maybe. But when was the last time you even went to class?”_

_Marceline stiffens. Her dark eyes meet Bonnie’s. Suddenly the blue-eyed girl remembers that the person before her reportedly beat up a wrestling team captain just for kicks. She’s never seen that side of Marceline; is she angry enough with her to bring that violence to the surface?_

_“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”_

_“I_ am _in student government.”_

_“That doesn’t make the rest of us your minions! Goddamit Bonnie, you and the rest of them act like you own us! You stupid, privileged, white—”_

_“What’s race got to do with this?!”_

_“Oh shut up. Like you haven’t noticed ninety-nine per cent of your precious ‘SG’ is white, compared to a thirty-ish per cent of minorities in the overall student population. You’re the Princess Brainlord, act like it!”_

_The hairs on the back of Bonnie’s neck stand on end. She feels cornered. So she snarls._

_“No, it’s not perfect, but that is not what we are discussing right now. We are discussing the fact that you are a druggie—”_

_“Hey now.”_

_“An alcoholic—”_

_“Hey, drunk and alcoholism are different.”_

_“And you’re a violent rock star wanna-be with mediocre music who hangs out with losers who are all gonna fail out of high school, work dead end jobs and amount to nothing because you’re all ambitionless and without any sense of morality!”_

_And even as the words are tumbling out of Bonnibel’s mouth, she regrets them, regrets that she’s standing under an overpass screaming, regrets what she_ is _at this moment. But the words come anyway._

_“YOU ARE A TOTAL FUCKING SCREW UP!”_

_Marceline stands there feeling strangely numb. Usually, she struggled to control her emotions and manage them. Right now, her body seems to buzz with some other kind of energy from emotion. Something raw and pure and powerful and weak. She stares at the fifteen-year-old in front of her, wondering what the hell happened._

_“A total… screw up. A fucking screw up. Wow, PB, I didn’t know you could cuss, well done,” Marceline says quietly. Her quiet tone only added to her venom, however. If words were knives, Bonnie knows she would be bleeding to death right now. Marceline whispers something else, more to herself than to Bonnibel although she can hear: “I’m a human being. Dammit, I’m a human being. You couldn’t just treat me like a human being…”_

_She turns, starts to walk back to her Beetle._

_“M-Marcy wait.”_

_“DON’T YOU FUCKING ‘MARCY’ ME!”_

_Bonnibel glares at her, and Marceline glares right back. They glare at each other even as Marceline reaches into the passenger side of the car, yanks Bonnibel’s backpack and PE duffel bag from the vehicle, and drop-kicks them across the whole street, where they tumble down an embankment into a creek. Still they glare as Marceline goes around to the other side of the car, opens the door, and says with a tilt of her chin, “You can walk home.” When they finally stop glaring—when Marceline drives off with burning rubber, Bonnibel finally allows herself a few tears. Very shortly, though, she’s darting across the street after her bags._

 

            “H-Hello?”

            “I just parked. Ready for winter break?”

            “Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute. Thank you.”

            It takes Marceline about a second to get bored. So she gets out of the car. After standing there in the cold for a few more seconds, she decides to sit on the hood, which is still warm from the engine running. “Mmmm,” she hums to herself. “Toasty buns.”

            “Aren’t you cold?”

            Marcy glances over at Bonnie coming down the front steps, then down at her outfit. Boots, jeans, flannel shirt and leather jacket, plus a beanie… “It’s enough,” she calls back. When she gets off the hood of the car, though, she does miss the heat. She jogs up the stairs to help the strawberry-blonde with her bags.

            “Thanks,” Bonnie huffs.

            “No prob.”

            While Bonnie takes the lead down the stairs with one bag, Marceline can’t help but look her over from behind. For once, she’s not wearing pink, and Marcy approves. A snuggly-looking grey sweater, skinny jeans, ankle boots, and even a red scarf. When she nearly drops her bag and bends to get it, alarms go off in Marceline’s brain. _Whatthelump do NOT look at her ass, holy shit! She got boobs AND hips?! That is so not fair and damn why does she have to look good, Jesus!_ She’s blushing, she knows she’s blushing, and she’s pissed that she’s blushing, so Marceline practically runs past Bonnie and throws her bag in the trunk. When Bonnibel catches up, she says gruffly, “You should really be wearing a hat,” and whirls back to the driver’s seat. Bonnie, unaware of Marceline’s irritation—let alone its cause—climbs into the passenger seat.

            “Oh hey Schwable!” she says when she looks back at Marceline’s various guitars in the back seat. The dog yips happily and shoves his head between the two front seats so Bonnie can pet him.

            “Hey, scoot along, old man,” Marceline barks. “I gotta be able to shift the car if we’re driving anywhere.” She revs the engine and they set off.

            For ten minutes or so, they sit in silence. That is, relative silence, since Marcy is shouting loudly at other drivers who cut her off in the busy city streets. Once Marceline feels comfortable on the highway however, she speaks up.

            “So I think it’ll be about four hours getting there, but it could be more depending on traffic and weather. Um, and we might need to stop some so Schwable can do his thing.”

            “Sounds good.”

            “Sorry we can’t play CDs or whatever. We can listen to the radio if you want… it’s kind of stuck on NPR.”

            “Uh… no thanks, maybe later.”

            “Mkay... So how were your finals?”

            “They could have been a lot worse.”

            “Yeah? But you passed?”

            “I guess you could call it passing.”

            “Hey, everyone struggles the first semester.”

            “What about you?”

            “I had my ass handed to me.”

            “Really?” Bonnie asks, grimacing.

            “Nope! Haha! I actually did really pretty well. And I worked enough gigs that I paid all my bills on time and have some money left over.”

            “That’s wonderful! You can spoil Schwable here, hm?”

            “Haha! Or myself!”

            “It’s December, Marcy. Spirit of giving?”

            “I thought you weren’t religious? Besides, my fam’s all Buddhists. Well,” she adds, a little sardonically, “…claim to be anyway.” She switches lanes to pass a truck.

            Bonnie sits with her knees pressed together, her hands wrapped tightly around each other in her lap despite the perfectly functional heater. Ever since before Thanksgiving, she has been preparing, thinking of how best to phrase this, how to say it. Now that she’s alone with Marcy, she’s not entirely sure she can actually do this. She takes a deep breath, hoping to displace some of the nausea. “Hey Marceline,” Bonnibel starts. “I… I just wanted to say… I’m sorry.”

            Marceline’s brow furrows, and Bonnie isn’t sure if she’s heard her or if she’s just concentrating on getting her car around the eighteen-wheeler.

            “For everything.”

            “I’m sorry, too.”

            Bonnie takes another deep breath, relieved to have finally said it without receiving backlash. She thinks perhaps she can just take a nap now and avoid any further emotional unpleasantness when Marceline starts speaking again.

            “Before… You were sort of right, I wasn’t myself for a while. Did you ever know Ash at school?”

            “What kind of weenus name is Ash?” Bonnibel says before she could stop herself.

            Marceline snorts. “While I am sure there are lots of Ashes out there in the world that are upstanding non-weenuses… yeah, this one wasn’t.”

            _Don’t look at her_ , Bonnie thinks. _Just don’t even look_.

            With a sigh, Marcy continues. “It was an unhealthy relationship. It wasn’t just that he got me into trouble and we skipped classes all the time to make trouble… He was really sexist and I guess kind of abusive, which got me drinking and… You know, you like to think you’re not that person. You wouldn’t be enough of a sap to be with a jerk like that but… I was. And it happens to a lot of people, apparently.”

            After a moment’s pause, Bonnie speaks. “I’m sorry that particular Ash was in fact a weenus.”

            “Hahahaha! Oh my god, the way you said that, wow!” Marceline laughs. For another few minutes, nothing is said. Bonnibel wrings her hands in her lap. She doesn’t really want to say more, but something inside feels like there isn’t a choice. Marcy just offered up some very delicate information. Surely social contracts required reciprocity.

            “The truth is, you were right, too. About me, about the kids in student government. After you left for college and everything… happened, it turns out a lot of the people I thought were my friends didn’t come through for me. And I started noticing things about how we acted that I hadn’t before, and… I thought a lot about what you said, back then.” Bonnie says quietly.

            Marcy’s brain feels stuck. She has no idea what Bonnie is talking about. “Um… What are we talking about?”

            When she glances over, she has to do a double-take, because Bonnibel is just staring at her, wide-eyed and pale like she’s seen a ghost.

            “Hey, Vampire to Princess, you copy?”

            “You don’t know.”

            It’s how she says it. Bonnie’s voice is so small, so genuinely afraid and—dare Marce even think it—broken. A sickeningly warm feeling hits her in the gut.

            “Bonnie,” she says, “What happened?”

            “My…” The day flashes before her in an instant. Bonnibel fights to keep her voice even, calm, controlled. “I was home with the flu. I was so angry because I _do not_ get sick. So I was stuck at home while my… my parents and my brother were out doing some shopping. There was a truck. The driver didn’t see them coming around the turn on the hill and…”

            “No. No!”

            “They all died… Christ, Marcy!”

            Marceline had slammed on the brakes. The car skids to and fro until it stops on the side of the road next to a farm. Bonnie, who had been cradling her head, terrified of the statistics of road fatalities in cars without airbags, looked up shouting, “WHAT THE LUMP! WHAT THE ACTUAL LUMP, MARCELINE! Oh…”

            Marceline sits with her head leaning against the steering wheel, her hands white-knuckled as she grips the dash.

            “Marce? Marcy? You’re- You’re not dead, right?”

            A choked sob replies.

            “Not dead.”

            “OhmyfuckingJesusBuddhaGod, don’t say that!” Marcy cries. She looks over, and Bonnie feels as though a blade has been shoved into her chest at the sight of tears streaming down Marcy’s face. “Gummy! Little Gumball? …Mrs. B? They’re…?”

            “Don’t cry, Marce. It was years ago now. It’s in the past.”

            “No don’t you see? For me, they just died!” Marcy says more but it’s all lost as she holds her face in her hand, the other arm cradling her chest. Schwable scoots up toward the front, moving to lick at his owner’s elbow. Instead she digs her hand into his fur, petting him a little roughly.

            “Please don’t cry, Marcy?” Bonnie begs. She’s starting to get worked up herself and it is the last thing she wants right now. Hesitantly she places a hand on Marcy’s shoulder and rubs with her thumb. “Please?”

            Some muffled reply is made.

            “Huh?”

            “I’m trying! Geez,” Marcy croaks. “Gimme a sec.” She steps out of the car. Bonnie watches for a few moments as she paces, hands at her thin waist, trying to compose herself. But then she starts kicking the car and jumping, stomping the road and she picks up a rock and throws it at the street, so Bonnie gets out.

            “Marcy! Marcy, stop!”

            “Aurgh!” She throws another rock. She turns, eyeing the car.

            “Hey! Hey, no! No! Not the car! You do not get to trap us in nowheresville when it is this cold! No!”

            Marceline lets out one last agonized scream through her teeth, letting her weight carry her down to lean against the hood of the car. Her feet fidget. When she looks up, Bonnie clamps her jaw tight so she can’t see her trembling chin. She sees it anyway.

            “Come here,” Marcy cries softly. Bonnie obeys. She looks up at Marcy’s eyes, dark and tearful, and sighs. As she leans her head down onto Marcy’s shoulder, Marcy’s arms try to hug back without shaking. Placing her chin on top of Bonnibel’s skull, the elder of the two says, “I am so, so sorry!”

            “I know.”

            Marceline shakes her head. “No you don’t! I…”

            “You what?” Bonnie sniffles.

            Marcy pulls away, just enough so they can look each other in the face again, and Bonnibel can see in Marceline’s eyes the most surprising thing: Marceline is terrified of her.

            “I know. I… lost a brother, too.”

            “What?” Bonnie whispers.

            “I had a twin brother, Marshall. When we were thirteen, he… he…” She swallows, looks down at her boots.

            “He died?”

            “Yes,” Marceline gasps.

            “How did he die?”

            “He was ill.”

            “What with?”

            “Depression.”

            As understanding dawns on Bonnibel’s face, Marceline sobs and pulls her close again. For a good long while, they just stand there, two young women crying and hugging on the side of the road next to a field of old corn stalks. Bonnie can feel Marcy’s shuddering ribs under her hands, and for a moment a strange but mournful peace settles over her. When Marceline eventually pulls away, Bonnie finds herself wishing she wouldn’t. They smile sadly at each other, then separate.

            “Dude… So where am I even driving you?” Marcy asks with a chuckle. She takes a deep, but shaky breath as she step further away, making for the driver’s side door. Bonnie already misses the extra warmth.

            “I lived with my godfather the rest of high school. I’m spending the holidays with him.”

            “And who’s your godfather?” They both clamber back into the Beetle.

            “Pepper M. Butler. I know the way once we get to town.”

            “Okay,” Marcy says. She wipes her nose on her sleeve, smiles weakly again. “Hate to tell you this, but it’s probably gonna be longer than four hours after all.”

 

            It’s getting dark now. They’re far enough north that snow covers most everything in sight. While Marcy walks back and forth with Schwable alongside the road, Bonnie leans up against the car, shivering slightly as she waits. The past several hours, talking about thirteen year old boys—how they could love basketball and music or baking and running track, how they were so annoying and so adorable and so precious, how they could be afraid of and protective of a sibling, how they could hold onto your heart and never let go—has left her feeling strangely empty. Not empty like a void, but as though a barrel full of pungent liquid within her somewhere had its stopper removed, and now that it was nearly drained, she couldn’t help but remember her hangover after the Halloween party. Having a moment of silence now was increasing her awareness of her discomfort.

            “Schwaaaaaaaaab,” Marcy groans about thirty yards off. “Hurry up and do your biz! Why you so picky about pissing?”

            Bonnie chuckles to herself. As the pair slowly amble back in her direction, she calls out, “So how much longer do you think we have?”

            “Can’t be more than an hour tops. Probably half an hour if this dog would _do something_. I swear, he’s worse than a cat. But you should probs call Pepper and let him know you’re almost home.”

            “Actually—”

            “Ha, yes!” Marcy says as Schwable takes his stance.

            “Pepper isn’t going to be home until tomorrow, so there’s no need.”

            “Wait, what?”

            “Well he’s British. So he went to see some relatives during the last couple of weeks and gets back tomorrow to spend the holidays here.”

            Marcy squishes up her face. “Dude, that is not a good plan.”

            “What?”

            “The last thing you wanna do after a vulnerability binge is hole up by yourself in the dark. It’s just a bad idea.”

            “Marceline, I am eighteen years old. I think I can manage to take care of myself for a day.”

            “Oh I don’t doubt that. But you don’t strike me as the type to talk about personal things very often.”

            “Why should I?”

            “I never said you should,” Marceline says, leading the poodle back toward the car. The tip of her mouth and an eyebrow both twitch; Bonnibel wonders if that’s her opinion in any case. “What I meant is you’re inexperienced,”

            Bonnie doesn’t respond. She does not see how inexperience at… ‘vulnerability’ could be a problem.

            “Don’t give me that face,” Marcy says with a tip of her chin as she ushers Schwable into the car and takes her own seat.

            As Bonnie opens her own door and gets in, she replies, “What face?”

            “Your cocky face.”

            “I do not have a cocky face! You’re the arrogant one!”

            Marceline laughs, turning the engine over and glancing over to watch Bonnie secure her seat belt. “Ever read Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_?”

            “Like you have.”

            “I have.”

            “No way!”

            “Literature is important. Just like all the artsy-fartsy stuff you hate.”

            Glaring out the window at the darkening sky, Bonnie mutters, “I don’t hate it.”

            “But I take it you haven’t read that book?”

            “No.”

            “Well, my point is, there’s more than one kind of pride and there’s more to it than meets the eye.”

            Bonnie has the strangest sense that Marcy is trying to communicate something cryptically, but she honestly hasn’t a clue what she could mean. _Why can’t people just speak in a forthright manner?_

            As the stars start to come out, illuminating the blankets of snow covering the landscape, quiet settles within the old VW Beetle. Schwable snores lightly. Marcy turns on the radio, but keeps the volume low enough that Bonnibel can tune it out. Sure enough, she can soon recognize landmarks indicating their increasing proximity to their hometown of Ooo.

            “So,” Bonnie says, “I should probably give you directions at this point.”

            “Only if you’re not coming to have dinner at my place.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “I’m inviting you to dinner with me and my parents. Not very exciting, but I still don’t think I should dump you by yourself right now.”

            “Marceline,” Bonnie says, an edge to her voice, “I’ll be fine.”

            “Bullshit.”

            “Don’t pity me.

            “This isn’t pity, it’s compassion, there’s a difference.”

“Dammit, this all hurts enough!”

            Marceline pauses, looking over at Bonnibel and her tight posture. “I know how you feel. And maybe this isn’t just about you.”

            It’s Bonnie’s turn to look over Marceline.

            “Didn’t know you had it in you to swear, Princess.”

            “Oh for—! Dammit.”

            “Hm?”

            “Damn shit fucking bloody fuck fuck bitch badass motherfucking fuck slut shit! … Cunt. Goddamn.”

            Marceline laughs hysterically at Bonnibel’s attempts to sounds infuriated. But by the end of her exposition on mature language, the fact is they both know it all sounds a little ridiculous coming out of her mouth, and soon they are both laughing.

            When Marceline drives by the turn off towards Pepper’s house, Bonnibel doesn’t correct her.

 

            “Mom?” Marcy calls, Schwable bounding for the door ahead and Bonnie following closely behind. It’s a big house, covered in twinkle lights. “I’m home! And I brought an extra mouth to feed!”

            Right before they reach the door, it opens and a short woman wearing a flowery apron steps out to hug Marceline, the dog happily barking at them as they embrace.

            “Hi Mom!”

            “My dear child!” They step back from each other and Marceline’s mother takes note of Bonnibel’s presence.

            “Good evening, ma’am,” Bonnie greets quietly.

            “Oh, Mom, this is Bonnibel, I drove her here from school but she needs to eat. Bonnie, this is my mother, Mrs. Abadeer.”

            “I am very pleased to meet you, my dear,” Mrs. Abadeer says, shaking her guest’s hand. Bonnie notices that she briefly glances to her daughter, who gives the subtlest shake of her head, and tension swiftly leaves the old woman’s kind features. “Come in, come in!” she insists. “Out of the cold, hurry.”

            As Marceline and her mother start making small talk about the drive up, the weather, and current events in town, Bonnibel starts to make observations about the house. It is indeed large, cavernous even. The decor consist of a strange mish mash of modern furniture, homey baskets of blankets and several framed photos, and tokens from far off places. A great deal of it, she extrapolates, must come from or near Thailand—two hand-carved wooden panels of humanoid figures attract her eye in particular—but some must surely be from elsewhere. And she hasn’t even seen upstairs yet.

            Dimly, Bonnibel is aware that someone has asked her a question. She turns toward the two women watching her from the other end of the front hall. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

            “Are you allergic to peanuts, my dear?”

            “Oh, no. Thank you for asking.”

            “Good to hear. Marceline loves pad thai, so I had made my mother’s recipe for her dinner,” Mrs. Abadeer says, scratching Marcy’s chin (apparently a much appreciated gesture as Marcy sounds like she’s purring) as she turns back to the kitchen.

            “Don’t worry,” Marceline adds as Bonnie enters the room. “My mom makes way better pad thai than I do,” she says with a wink.

            Bonnie’s face flushes. Under her breath, she hisses, “I apologized, do you have to add to my embarrassment?”

            “Absolutely,” Marcy says with a grin. As she steps turns and takes a seat on a stool at the kitchen island, she gestures for Bonnibel to follow. “Seriously though, Grandma’s recipe is the best.”

            “She came with me to America when I was very little,” Mrs. Abadeer adds, checking something on the stove. “I grew up in California for the most part, but my parents worked very hard to make sure I had a proper Thai upbringing.” Marcy and Bonnie giggle at the false sternness in Mrs. Abadeer’s voice for the last three words. The mother shrugs. “Eh, it was California.”

            “In the ‘60s and ‘70s,” Marcy says, giggling more.

            “Alas, they tried. They managed to keep me religious, at least.”

            “Are you Buddhist?” Bonnibel asks quietly, hoping she isn’t treading into dangerous waters.

            “Indeed I am, my dear. So is Marceline.” Bonnie sees Marcy’s mother lift an eyebrow at her daughter in just the same way Marcy could do. Marceline just smiles sheepishly.

            “So those aren’t Christmas lights outside?”

            “Oh they are,” insists Marceline. “We do Christmas, it’s just a family thing instead of a Jesus-baby thing. Like Fourth of July. Seriously, you should see Christmas in Bangkok, that party is wild!”

            Again, her mother lifts a dangerous eyebrow at her daughter. “What she _should_ see is the Water Festival if she should ever travel to Thailand.” Mrs. Abadeer turns. “Which you should.”

While Mrs. Abadeer returns her whole attention to the meal, scooping out noodles and fried tofu and peanuts and vegetables onto plates, Marceline fishes out a bag of dog food from under the sink and pours some into a bowl by a glass door to, Bonnie presumes, the outdoors, which Schwable joyfully attacks. She comes back and sits next to Bonnie, and the pair grin at each other as they watch the dog wiggle from head to toe, gulping down his meal.

            “So Bonnie,” Mrs. Abadeer says, placing two plates before the young women. She walks back across the kitchen and gets her own plate and a seat across the kitchen island. Marcy darts up for some water glasses.

            “Oh dear, pour me some wine.”

            “Okay.”

            “Sorry, Bonnie. So are you from around here? Or are you another one of my dear daughter’s lost strays?” Mrs. Abadeer asks with a smile.

            “I grew up in Ooo,” Bonnie says, taking a glass from Marcy as she returns. Marceline quickly devolves into an eating machine not altogether very different from Schwable.

            “Where abouts?”

            “With my godfather, Pepper Butler, near the high school.”

            “Oh… Oh!”

            Marcy and Bonnie pause as Mrs. Abadeer suddenly understands. While Marcy is lifting that dangerous eyebrow back at her mother, Bonnie freezes, afraid of further exploration of an emotional self with which she is not altogether comfortable.

            “And you will be staying with your godfather over the holidays?”

            “Yes,” Bonnie says, relief flooding her. “He’s one his way back from visiting family in England as we speak.”

            “He gets in tomorrow,” Marcy adds, a little unkindly.

            “In the morning,” Bonnie retorts.

            “Well you are welcome to stay here as long as you wish,” Marcy’s mother interjects, “but you are by no means obligated to receive unwanted hospitality.”

            “I do appreciate the meal a great deal, Mrs. Abadeer,” Bonnie says hurriedly, afraid maybe she’s said something wrong. “Marcy was right, it is phenomenal.”

            “Nonsense, my dear. So what are you studying?”

            “At the moment, nothing interesting.”

            Marcy snorts, then starts coughing violently. When she finally composes herself and notices the others watching her, she says hoarsely, “Noodle up my nose.”

            “Ew!”

            “Marceline, do not say things like that at the table, really!”

            “Sorry,” she says with a smirk.

            “At the moment, I’m leaning towards biochemistry and genetics,” Bonnie says to Marcy’s mother, ignoring the smothered chuckling occurring next to her. “But I can’t say for sure what I want to study because this whole first semester I was stuck in gen ed classes.”

            “I see. So would that take you into the medical field?”

            “Possibly.”

            Just then the front door swings open and slammed shut out of sight. While Schwable barks, bounding toward the door to greet another person, the two raven haired women freeze, their gazes first held together with an unknown tension until Mrs. Abadeer stands and Marcy’s entire body shifts. Her eyes glaze over, staring at her plate, and her body looks stiff and closed.

            “Is Marceline here?” a male voice with something of a New York City accent calls, footsteps coming nearer. “I saw her car.” Bonnie turns to see a tall man step across the kitchen threshold, accepting a shy kiss on the cheek from Marcy’s mother despite a rather stern continence. He stands there, looking over the two young women—Bonnie sitting at attention and staring right back, Marcy turned as much away as possible—before he speaks.

            “Welcome home, Marceline.”

            “Hey Daddy.”

            “Bonnibel Becke.”

            Bonnie shivers at hearing her name come from the lips of this large man in a sharply tailored suit. His eyes seem to calculate, his stance vibrating with power, and his sharp facial features make Bonnie imagine the knives throughout the kitchen are slowly turning to point at her (which is saying something for Bonnie).

            Then he sighs, and in a split second some kind of film seems to wash over him and Bonnie wonders if she just imagined the air of threat around him. “I knew your parents. I doubt you saw me at the funeral—didn’t seem like my place to approach you at the time—but I want you to know I greatly appreciated their service to my company.”

            “They worked for you, sir?”

            He’s stepping closer as he speaks, into the kitchen, with Mrs. Abadeer quietly returning to her seat and plate.

            “Oh yes. Not directly of course, me being CEO. But the scientific contributions of the Beckes are known throughout the entirety of NightSphere as groundbreaking gifts to the field. I was truly sorry to lose them.”

            Marceline glowers at her father, tight-lipped, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Bonnie can’t see her, but Mr. Abadeer does.

            “Thank you… sir.”

            “My name is Hunson Abadeer. I see you’ve met my wife, and of course my daughter, who I assume brought you into our home as a guest. I am afraid,” he says, looking over to his wife briefly, “that I will not be joining you for dinner. I must take a conference call up in my office.”

            With a single look from her husband, Mrs. Abadeer scurries over to bring him his plate and utensils from the counter, which he takes with a smile. Curtly he nods to Bonnie, then turns on his heel for the hallway and the stairs. Listening to him climb, Marceline abruptly stands up and marches after him. She realizes as Marceline storms past out of the kitchen into the hall that she’s even taller than her father.

Bonnibel looks to Mrs. Abadeer. She sighs. “Well Bonnie, why don’t we watch a little TV until Marcy gets back, hm?”

            That’s what they do as they finish up the meal, which doesn’t taste quite as good as it did not five minutes ago. And while the sitcom is entertaining, Bonnie can’t help but squirm as a screaming match quickly erupts upstairs, muffled by the ceiling above them. After what seems like ages, Marceline’s powerful rocker voice finally takes all, shaking the windows downstairs as she roars, “I MEAN YOU SHOULD HAVE FUCKING TOLD ME SO I COULD HAVE BEEN THERE FOR HER YOU SELFISH, CONNIVING ASSHOLE!”

            A door slams, footsteps slam across the floor above and down the stairs.

            “I have a feeling she will be offering you a ride home now,” Mrs. Abadeer says quietly to Bonnie, watching the ceiling. Sure enough, Marceline appears in the doorway by the television set as something thuds repeatedly upstairs.

            “Hey Bon. Listen, if you wanna stay the night here instead of an empty house, you can, but would you like me to take you home?”

            She clears her throat. “I think a night in my own bed would serve well after four months on a dorm mattress,” Bonnie says, standing and smoothing out her sweater.

            “Great. Let’s go.”

            “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Mrs. Abadeer,” Bonnie says to Marcy’s mother, still siting on the couch.

            “Thank you, my dear, for the lovely company,” the woman replies with a smile.

            Quickly, she follows Marceline out the front door and back to the car. They only speak so that Bonnibel can offer directions. When she pulls up, Marceline sees through the dark a small house draped in snow. It almost looks whimsical, not at all how she pictured Bonnibel’s home. Of course, she still associated Bonnie with her parents’ house.

            When Bonnie opens the door to get out, Marcy reaches for her other wrist. “I’m sorry,” she says. Bonnie looks up from her wrist to Marceline’s mouth. “About back there.”

            “I almost feel as though I should offer _you_ a room for the night,” Bonnie teases.

            “I’d be tempted. But no, I’ve got to go try again.” She lets go. “Good night, Bon. Call me if… if you need anything.”

            “Of course. Thank you. Good night.”

            Bonnie stands up, retrieves her bags from the trunk, and walks up to and into the house. As lights turn on in the house, Marceline remains in her car, shivering in the cold. _Just turn the damn car on_ , she thinks. _Move. Marceline, M-O-V-E MOVE. You are being creepy. Go._ After the last light turns out, she drives away.


	6. January

January

 

            “Shoko?”

            “Mhm?” Shoko responds, sucking on the remains of her giant movie-theater soda.

            “You know how sometimes we talk about boys together?”

            “Yes,” Shoko says, bumping shoulders with Bonnie as they walk down the sidewalk, away from the theater. “Is there someone at your college you like?”

            “No, that’s not… that isn’t exactly what I mean to discuss.”

            “Say more, then.”

            Bonnie smiles, but hesitates.

After the accident, many expressed pity, but few people were willing to hear what _she_ needed to say. She had closed off to others, pushed them away during her unbearable, painfully illogical grief. But then she met Shoko, the one-armed girl who never judged her. They became best friends for the rest of high school, and as Bonnie climbed the ranks of student government to become president, when she rankled feathers by actually installing reforms, Shoko had always been there to support her. Maybe being named prom queen was symbolic, the student body using Bonnie and her family tragedy as a token to make _them_ feel good, but Shoko genuinely cared about others. Bonnie hopes that she is half as good a friend to Shoko as Shoko is to her.

“Well the thing is… In retrospect, I noticed that we’ve largely discussed boys that you took an interest in.”

“Okay… Is that a problem?”

“No. I’m just observing that I don’t tend to bring the topic up, nor do I take much interest in those of the male gender. It’s just curious to me.”

“Hm. Maybe you’re asexual.”

“Maybe I’m what?”

“You know, people who just aren’t very into sexy stuff.”

Bonnie thinks for a moment. “That doesn’t feel right.”

“That people might not be into sexiness?”

“No, that _I’m_ not. I’m sure if I found a suitable partner I would quite enjoy the sexy things.”

“You sure?” Shoko asks, dropping the empty soda cup in a trash can and adjusting her coat sleeve around her arm stub.

 _Exceedingly so_ , Bonnie thinks. “Yes, I believe I am.”

“Then don’t worry about it,” Shoko says with a shrug. “Different people like different things. You just haven’t seen what you like yet. Or you could just be a late bloomer.”

            “You’re probably right… So, do you have any New Year resolutions?”

            “Boxing heavyweight champion, you?”

            “Abandon higher education for my real dream of being a Hollywood actress.” They laugh.

 

            _“Dude, you chew a lot of bubblegum lately,” Marceline says to the thirteen-year-old climbing into her car. Once she’s buckled up, Marcy hits the gas, anxious to get away from the middle school._

_“Yeah, I know. It’s a thing with my brother.”_

_Marceline looks over at Bonnibel, her breath tight. An image of a thirteen-year-old brother rises from the depths of her consciousness to her mind’s eye. “Oh?”_

_“So, I’m a strawberry-blonde, right?”_

_“You’re hair? Sure, I guess, why?”_

_“Well, my brother is, too, but his hair is a bit redder and a good bit thicker, so it kind of curls a great deal and looks… pretty close to pink.”_

_Marcy snorts, “No way!”_

_“He’s just ten, and he likes his hair, but the other kids at school are calling him names and such nonsense.”_

_“Names? Like what?”_

_“Oh, girly things, I suppose. Gumball seems to be sticking, though, so I decided to start chewing a lot of gum.”_

_Marceline hisses as she darts across an intersection just as the light turns red. “What, to add to his misery?”_

_“No, as a sign of solidarity! I have observed that excessive behavior can result in the receiving of a nickname. I figure if I procure such a nickname related to gum that maybe my brother won’t feel so bad about it.”_

_“Any luck so far?”_

_“When asked about it, I tell people to call me Princess Bubblegum.”_

_“BAHAHAHA!” Marceline guffaws. “You are kidding!”_

_“I do not ‘kid’ very much,” Bonnie grumbles._

_“Oh please, you’re thirteen. But hey, if it’s any consolation, I think your heart’s in the right place. Aaaaand here you are, home safe and sound. Get out,” Marcy growls. Then she smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”_

 

            Bonnibel power walks up the drive to the old wooden house. She’s nervous, but she’s not sure why. All of the people in there are familiar and friendly. _Why should I be nervous?_

            She knocks, and shortly thereafter a tall, blonde man opens the door. “Hi Jake.”

            “Hey PB, come on in. Marcy and I are jammin’ down in the basement. Finn’s over at a friend’s house tonight, but when he gets home later he’ll be happy to see you, too.”

            Stepping inside, she follows him to the staircase, which he descends with wild abandon. It’s warm downstairs, Bonnie discovers, a pleasant shift from the outdoors. She’s about to lift off her bring pink sweater when she yips in surprise.

            “Haha, gotya!” Marcy squeals beside her, having clearly poked her with the bow that accompanied the large instrument nearby.

            “That wasn’t very nice, Marceline,” Bonnie hisses, removing her sweater anyway.

            “Nice shmice, let’s not pretend to be offended. So Jake, one more run through, then chill?”

            “Fine by me,” Jake sighs, picking up his viola from its open case.

            “What are you working on?” Bonnie asks, taking a seat on a ratty old couch beside Marcy.

            “Marceline’s my accompanist during my senior recital this spring, so we’re practicing every day over break.”

            “Really? Every day?”

            “You have to if you want to be any good,” Marcy says, more than a hint of condescension in her voice.

            “Oh don’t let me interrupt,” Bonnie replies with false deference.

            “Fine,” Jake says, taking his position. “Let’s go.”

            It’s a little surreal to see Marceline in her jeans, grey flannel, and trucker hat playing (Bonnibel leans forward to glance over her shoulder) Beethoven alongside Jake in his pajamas. The music is clearly challenging, she realizes (attempting to calculate the exact break down of beats into fractions and intervals and functions), yet for all intents and purposes the happiness on the two faces before her seem more suitable for a rock concert. Nonetheless, she sits silently, patiently for the duet to finish. When they do, she claps politely. They even practice a simultaneous bow, just for Bonnibel.

[http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PX65y5G_iv0]

            “All right, I’m done,” Marcy groans, sitting heavily back on the couch, her head lolling back against the wall as Jake starts to clean his viola and put it away.

            “How along have you two been practicing?”

            “Three, four hours?” Jake says with a shrug.

            “What?!”

            “That’s nothin’, Bon. We probably practice individually for three hours a day on top of that.”

            “But you’re a double major!”

            “Yeah,” Jake sneers. “This woman’s a workaholic.”

            “Filthy lies, I’m the life of the party,” Marcy groans, despite her exhausted appearance.

            “So?”

            Upstairs, they hear the front door slam and quick feet dart across to the kitchen.

            “That’ll be Finn,” Jake says. “I’ll go get him.”

            “Naw,” Marcy says, standing suddenly. “I’ll go get the kid.”

            “Thanks Marce,” Jake calls as she pulls herself up the stairs on all fours. Bonnibel and he chuckle at the sight.

            “How have you been Jake?” Bonnibel asks, folding her hands demurely on her lap. “I haven’t seen you since before Thanksgiving break.”

            “Oh stellar. Finals were killer, but being home has been really great. Me and Finn are pretty close, it sucks being so far away, you know?”

            Bonnibel pauses a moment, but when she sees him tense, she smiles politely. “Yes, absolutely.” An awkward silence settles. Quickly, Bonnie seeks to break it. “Jake, I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask.”

            “Shoot,” he says, scratching at his bright yellow sweater.

            “Were you that wrestling captain that Marceline beat up in high school?”

            “HAHAHAHAHEhehehehe!” Jake bursts, although Bonnibel sticks to a polite if curious smile. “She told you about that, huh?”

            “Not exactly, but I’ve been wondering since we met again at her party.”

            “Haha! Yeah that was me,” he admits, smiling at his shoes and wiping at some dirt in his eye. “I kinda deserved it though?”

            “No!” Bonnie protests.

            “Oh yeah! I was totally full of myself. You know what they called me? On the team? Magic Dog.”

            “Like the school mascot?”

            “Yeah, something like that. Magic because I was undefeated in meets. And I kinda took to showing off by, well, being a little rude to other kids around school. You know, before your class came in. Marcy showed me how to check my ego at the door.”

            She snorts.

            “No I’m serious! She got in a ton of trouble, even though it was off school grounds, but it actually made me change my thinking a lot. I mean, not that I’m advocating using violence as a teaching method, haha! But it worked for me.”

            “Were you friends after that?”

            “Not exactly. She also freaked me out.”

            Bonnie laughs. “She seems to leave that impression.”

            “Hey!” Marceline called, sticking her head down the staircase just enough to be visible below the basement’s ceiling. “You two talking about me.”

            “Yes.” “No!”

            Marceline’s trademark smirk appears. “I don’t know who said what.”

            “Good,” Bonnibel replies. “What’s taking you so long?”

            “The kid’s hungry, dude! I gotta feed the poor thing.”

            “Hey, I’m hungry, too,” Jake replies.

            “Okay… then come up here.” She darts away.

            With a huff, Jake and Bonnibel  start heading up the stairs. Suddenly, a short, blonde boy in a white hoodie appears in the doorway above. Behind her, Bonnie hears Jake gasp.

            “SNEAK ATTACK! ALALALALALALALAA!”

            An onslaught of snowballs hits Bonnie and Jake, drenching them quickly but doing nothing to slow their assailant's volleys. Finn laughs gleefully as they sputter and run into each other trying to escape. As the pair falls over each other at the bottom of the stairs and climb over each other, Jake pulls Bonnie towards a door. He wrenches it open, revealing a dirty garage. But Marceline stands there before him, smiling innocently with her hands behind her.

            “FUCK!”

            Marceline hoots at Jake, laying snowball after snowball into him. Bonnibel pulls him away, only to get smacked so hard by one of Finn’s strikes in the shoulder, she literally wipes out. On the ground, one of Marcy’s snowballs hits her right in the face.

            “Augh!”

            “You two!” Jake hollers.

            Finn and Marcy just laugh, too doubled over to continue. At least until Bonnibel catches Marceline’s eye.

            “Uh oh.”

            With a warrior’s cry, Bonnibel rolls over and charges Marceline, chasing her back out into the garage. They run outside through the open garage doorway. Marceline yelps, having left her shoes downstairs when she first went up to greet Finn. She hops from foot to foot in the snow-covered yard, and Bonnibel easily catches up and tackles her from behind. They go sprawling into the snow.

            “Ow! Hahahahaha!” Marcy says, lifting her face from the snow. Bonnie, lying diagonally atop her back, laughs too.

            “You deserve it!”

            “Umph. Get off of me!”

            “What was that? Couldn’t hear you with all that snow in your face.”

            “Get off me, I’m gonna get pneumonia!”

            “Please, you’re never cold.” Still, Bonnie gets up, making sure to brace her hands on other parts of Marcy so she’s pressed deeper in the snow. But Marceline lays motionless in the snow.

            “Marcy?”

            Quietly, she starts wiping her arms and legs against the snow. When she stands, she’s covered head to toe in the sticky snow, but apparently can see pretty well. She snorts. “Hey Bon, I made a lady-snow angel, see?” she asks, pointing to the chest region.

            “Yes I can see that quite clearly.”

            “And guess what?” the white humanoid asks, turning to (Bonnibel assumes) look at her.

            “What?”

            Marceline swiftly wraps herself around Bonnibel, even lifting her off the ground with the strength of her hug.

            “AUGH! MARCY!” Bonnie screams, feeling the snow seep into her clothes and freeze her skin.

            Laughing more, Marceline quickly puts Bonnibel down again. “Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t resist, hehehe! But yeah, let’s go back, it’s cold.”

            “Yes, let’s.”

            They bump shoulders as they cross the yard again, and Bonnie giggles as Marceline continues to yelp with each step, snow soaking into her socks. Jake and Finn are wrestling playfully when they close the garage door behind them, but the boys stop to greet them.

            “Hey there!” Jake says. “So which of you won?”

            “It was a tie,” Marceline says with a nod of approval. “I take it you creamed him, Finn?”

            “Yes,” Finn croaks, still in one of his brother’s expert holds. Jake lets him go. “Hi PB!”

            “Hey, Finn! How’s it going?” Bonnibel says kindly.

            “Oh you know… stuff.”

            For a moment Bonnibel can’t puzzle out Finn’s response. It hits her when Marceline barks, “Hey! Eyes forward, soldier!” as she steps in front of Bonnibel. Then she remembers that she was wearing a white blouse under her sweater. “You don’t just star at a lady’s tits, Finn, that’s super rude! Not cool, Finn!”

            “Yeah, Finn!” Jake says, grabbing his brother’s ear and starting to drag him upstairs. “You gotta respect the female gender!”

            “Ow ow ow ow! I’m sorry I’m sorry!”

            “There _is_ food up there, Jake,” Marcy calls. “Help yourself.”

            “BACON PANCAKES!” is all the women hear from Jake once the males are upstairs.

            Marceline turns around again. The mortified look on Bonnibel’s face is priceless.

            “Hahaha! Oh god, shit, sorry, it’s just you’re face couldn’t be any redder if you tried!”

            “Shut up,” Bonnie moans. “Help me.”

            “Yeah yeah,” Marcy says, smiling like an idiot to herself as she starts looking around the room. “You had a sweater didn’t you?”

            “On the couch.”

            “Right right.” Marcy grabs the pink fuzzy top and swaggers back, holding it out for Bonnie.

            “Eyes front, soldier,” Bonnie grumbles, taking the sweater.

            “You will notice my eyes have not drifted south of your collar bone, Princess.”

            Bonnibel just watches her nervously, sweeping some wet, frizzing hair behind her ear. She turns around abruptly and starts unbuttoning her blouse. Marceline, a little shocked, clamps her jaw shut as quickly as possible and backs away as Bonnie shrugs the wet garment from her shoulders, bends at the waist to retrieve the sweater, scratches at an itch along her bra strap.

            “Uh,” Marcy says loudly, backing up the stairs. “I’m just gonna be… you know, upstairs… Doing things… Shout if you need any more uhh… assistance.” _You butt_ , Marcy thinks, making her way to the kitchen.

            When Bonnibel comes up in her sweater, her blouse in hand, Marcy’s there to offer her a plate of bacon pancakes. Finn, at his brother’s cue, steps up to her. “PB, I’m sorry. Can I put your shirt in the dryer for you?”

            “Yes, Finn, that would be lovely. Thank you,” Bonnibel replies with a certain regal elegance, delicately handing the shirt to Finn. He shuffles off to another room of the house, then darts off again to the boys’ shared bedroom.

            “The funny thing,” Jake says through a mouthful of pancakes, “I’m pretty sure the ‘play-date’ he was at tonight was actually a ‘date-date.’”

            “Oh gosh!” Bonnie says, laying her fingers on her cheek in wonder. “Is he really old enough he’s dating now?”

            “Yesh!” Jake says, shoving more food in.

            “Good grief Jake,” Bonnibel says. “It’s not a race.” He pauses, his eyes darting between the two women.

            “It’s his third plate,” Marcy states.

            “They’re so good!” Jake whimpers with watery eyes.

            “Oh please,” Bonnibel says, rolling her eyes. When she takes a bite into her mouth, she pauses. Marcy watches her like she’s just about to tell the punch line to a joke.

            “Well?”

            Bonnibel chews through a sigh, swallows. “They’re not bad.”

            “Not bad?!” Jake shrieks. “Heresy!”

            “Okay, they’re mathematical.”

            “Math-what?”

            “Fantastic! They’re fantastic, okay? I admit it!” Bonnibel cries, taking another bite. “Don’t judge me.”

            “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Marceline says sarcastically.

            For a while, they all chat about the upcoming semester. They joke about the administration’s pitfalls, groan about the meal plans. Jake and Marcy offer Bonnibel some friendly advice about the ins and outs of the city. She tells them about her schedule, seeking advice about any professors they might know. (“ _You’re_ taking the LGBT Identities  & History class with McNamara?!” “It’s my last gen ed, Marceline.” “Yeah but… you could have taken, like… any sociology class.”) Marceline details the concerts she has coming up in the next month, to which Jake and Bonnie admit they hope they can attend at least once.

            “Hey,” Jake says. “How about a little toast?”       

            “With what?”

            “Let’s see,” Marcy says, already standing in front of the fridge. “Looks like you have a little wine left from New Years… a couple shitty beers—seriously Jake, have your folks never heard of microbreweries?—and milk.”

            “Could I have tea?” Bonnibel asks.

            “Oh yeah! We’ve got tea!” Jake says, opening the cabinet about the stove. “What kind do you like?”

            “Do you have chamomile?”

            “Yeah, sure do,” he replies, reaching in for a tin.

Marceline grabs the hotpot from the counter top and fills it with water from the sink. “You know what? That actually sounds really good, I think I’ll have some, too.”

Jake smiles. “Aw heck, we’ll all have tea, that does sound good.”

Bonnibel giggles to herself, smiles as Marcy gets the water boiling and Jake prepares three mugs. They move in peaceful silence, respecting the calm quiet that comes with the brewing of tea. In a little less than ten minutes, Jake passes the mugs around. “There we go,” he says quietly. He blows on his cup, takes a sip to check the temperature. “Mmmm… All right, a toast!” he lifts his mug towards the others. “To the U!”

“To good times!” Marcy adds with a mischievous chuckle.

“To friends,” Bonnie croons. Marceline blinks, glances over, and the two share a brief look. As they all drink their tea, Jake can’t help but notice that Marcy’s eyes linger a little longer on Bonnibel.

 

            The drive back to the city is significantly less traumatic than the drive at the start of break. Marceline and Bonnibel have bumped into each other more than once over their break in the small town; they’ve had the opportunity to do some mournful processing together already. So they chat about simple things—the weather, the high school, dogs and other pets, how underfunded their preferred programs at the U are—and when they run out of simple things, they listen to the radio. Occasionally Marceline says something snarky under her breath or even outright shouts at the newscaster. When she does this, Schwable tends to join her, barking at nothing in particular in the back seat. Nonetheless, Bonnibel finds it sort of endearing and sweet, noticing little rhyme or reason to Marceline’s madness, although she thinks it might be worth taking the time to observe her friend’s behavior at another time to take note of any patterns.

            “Hey,” Marcy says, “I’m really hungry for lunch. I know we’re almost there, but can we stop?”

            Bonnibel looks at her watch. She doesn’t actually have much planned for today, but it seems like she ought to _seem_ like she does. “Sure,” she says finally. “I think I have time for a stop.”

            “Cool. ‘Cause there’s this truck stop I like at the next exit.”

            Twenty minutes later, they sit at a little plastic table as the waitress brings them their orders: Toast, eggs sunny-side-up, and tea for Bonnibel; coffee and poached eggs over hash browns, drenched in hollandaise and hot sauce for Marceline. Schwable sits under the table, his jaw resting on Marceline’s thigh, gratefully accepting the biscuits the waitress brings him.

            Bonnibel eats cheerily enough. Soon enough, she notices that Marceline is eating rather slowly, a strange look on her face. Like she’s concentrating on something or thinking critically about something.

            “Marceline? Are you feeling okay?”

            “Hm? Yeah, fine.”

            Bonnie shrugs, continues chewing.

            “Hey Bon?”

            “Mhmn?”

            “Look, I just want to say…” Bonnibel watches Marcy. Her face doesn’t move at all, but somewhere in her eyes is the look of a wild creature. Finally, she settles on something. “I just want to say I’m glad we can be friends again.”

            “Hmm,” Bonnie sighs, nodding. She swallows. “Me too.”

            “Let’s not lose touch this semester, okay?”

            Bonnie looks down at the table. For a second, she thought maybe Marceline had grabbed her hand, but when she looks, her hand rests by her teacup on its own. She looks up again, caught in Marceline’s wild gaze.

            “Yeah, okay.” She clears her throat, unsure why she spoke so softly just now. “Yes, I’d like that.”

            “Okay,” Marcy says. But if anything, she looks more troubled.

            As the waitress walks by, Marcy flags her down. “Hey! Could we get two strawberry milkshakes to go?”

            “Sure.”

            “What’s that about?” Bonnie asks.

            “Oh they’re good. Besides, I like strawberries, and you like milkshakes. You do still like milkshakes, right?”

            “Duh!”

            “Yeah, so they’re awesome. I mean, I’m food-preggers right now myself, but I don’t care, those milkshakes are totally worth it.”


	7. February

February

 

            Marceline walks across campus from her usual haunts near the arts center, toward buildings she had thought she would never again return. She had thought dealing with a phone call she’s been meaning to make on her way might settle her nerves, but it doesn’t. The conversation ends, she hangs up, and finds her skin still feels uncomfortable, as though it’s the wrong size for her body. Nonetheless she marches on, her chin high and her lips smirking… her fingers tapping nervously at the strap of her bag.

            Bonnibel stuck to their agreement. Since the new semester started, she had met with Marceline at least once a week, at Mike’s of course, to check in on each other. Oftentimes they only chatted for a short period before taking out their respective projects to work on, sitting together in silence. Sometimes, unbeknownst to Bonnibel, Marceline would be working on her concert schedule. And unbeknownst to Marcy, Bonnibel would be going over plans for one of her clubs’ projects. They hadn’t quite worked up learning about each other’s interests in that way.

            Perhaps that’s why Marcy feels so nervous as she checks in as a dormitory visitor, receives directions from the desk receptionist, taps her toes impatiently in the elevator. The floor she steps onto when the elevator spits her out looks familiar. Cheap carpet, bulletin boards, overflowing trashcans, socks dropped on the way back from the laundry. _I swear_ , she thinks, _the freshmen are getting smaller every year_. She manages to dodge the bustling residents, slowly realizing that it must be an all-girls floor, and makes her way to a room number she has written on her forearm, hidden by her sweater and leather coat. There seem to be voices speaking on the other side.

            She knocks.

            “Hey! Marceline?”

            “Vampire Queen, checking in.”

            “One second! Okay ladies, I need you to clear a path to the door for me.”

            _Clear a path?_ Marcy thinks. “How many chicks you got in there, Bon?”

            “Just—One—Second! Ah!” Bonnibel cries, appearing in the doorway. “There we go. Thanks for coming, Marcy.”

            Blood rushes past Marceline’s ears, blocking out all other sound, when she sees Bonnibel, and time seems to slow to a stop.

 

            _Mrs. B opens the door, smiling politely at Marcy. “Why, good afternoon, Marceline! What a pleasant surprise to see you. And on a weekend!” Mrs. B chuckles a bit. “What can I do for you?”_

_“Oh ya know,” Marcy says, shifting her slouching weight to appear as casual as possible. “Visiting the invalid. I figured a whole week missing her carpool, must be pretty sick.”_

_“Yes, indeed,” Mrs. B says with a sigh that seems to say, ‘But what can you do?’ She continues, “It would seem we did not get Bonnibel in for a flu shot early enough this year. We really must do better next season.” Stepping aside, she motions for Marceline to come in. Marcy does._

_“She’s in her room,” Mrs. B says, pointing to the left of the front hallway. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”_

_“Thanks Mrs. B.”_

_“On your way out, come by the kitchen, I’ve just finished some homemade caramels!”_

_“Yes, ma’am!” Marcy laughs, adding a little salute before turning for Bonnie’s room. She’s been outside this house countless times, but being inside feels very different. It’s pretty, in a clean sort of way. At the end of the hallway, Marceline spots a door with a poster of Einstein taped to it. She knocks._

_“Uhhnnn?”_

_“Bonnie? It’s me, Marceline.”_

_A groan replies, but Marcy’s fairly certain it’s flu-speak for ‘come in,’ so she does. Her first impression of the room is that she probably should have worn sunglasses into a room this bright. In the bed, a teenage girl is in the middle of trying to sit up politely. It seems pretty clear she was balled up under the covers not fifteen seconds ago._

_“Hey! How’s it going?”_

_“What’s it look like?”_

_“Snot.”_

_Bonnibel weakly pulls some sheets up over her head and leaves it there._

_“Hey now,” Marcy says, pulling the sheet back down and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “We all get snot faces when we’re sick.”_

_“I missed… that… concert last night.”_

_“You did,” Marcy says, nodding. “But! I got you a souvenir.” Rummaging in her bag, Marceline pulls out a black concert shirt and holds it up for Bonnibel to see. “See? Pretty cool, huh?” She decides not to mention that part of the reason she purchased the shirt was because the guy’s she’s started dating puked on her and she needed something else to wear. Somehow telling Bon that, one, she dunked her top half into the venue’s sink until she felt raw, and two, wore what would become Bonnie’s gift all night long while she sweat like she was in a sauna, didn’t really seem like the best idea._

_“Sure,” Bonnie says weakly._

_“I am sorry you couldn’t make it,” Marcy says, folding up the shirt and laying it beside her on the bed. “You might want to wash this before you wear it though. You know, get the concert stank out.”_

_“Hm.”_

_Marcy couldn’t blame Bonnibel for being unenthusiastic. She really did look miserable. But when she got better, Marcy thinks Bon will truly enjoy the gift. So she excuses herself, only to be disappointed over the next few weeks when she never sees Bonnibel wear the shirt._

_After Marceline leaves the room, Bonnie looks down at the shirt beside her on the bed. Using what little strength she has, she unfolds it and brings it up to her chest. It lies on top of her there, close enough that when a draft flows across her room, the smell of the shirt hits her._

 

            “Princess to Vampire, come in Marceline. Hello? Do I need to call emergency services? MARCY!”

            “You… You still have that shirt I got you…? At the Death By Snakes concert?”

            Bonnibel feels confused for a split second before she looks down. The design is worn and the black cloth has turned grey from frequent use. “Uh,” she starts, “yeah. It means a lot to me.”

            “You never wore it.”

            “Dude, she wears that shirt ALL THE LUMPING TIME!” Ellen shouts from the other side of the really quite small dorm room (over the heads of several giggling freshmen women, all in sleepwear).

            “Really?” Marcy asks, her voice cracking a little.

            “Yeah,” Bonnie says, and her face is turning pink. “As pajamas.” _As the one thing I’ve never had the strength to wash for fear of losing that smell_.

            “It’s like totally gross, too! She never washes it!” Ellen shouts.

            Marceline’s eyes bug out. “Bonnie, do you have any idea how much that shirt is worth?”

            “What do you mean?” Bonnie asks innocently, tilting her head to the side, and Marcy just thinks, _Well fuck. This is not a date, Marce._

            “That concert? That was the last time their lead guitarist performed. The next day he jumped off the hotel roof where they were staying. Everyone in the music industry knew he was a prodigy and it was like a national day of mourning at all the music stores and anything from that last performance of his is like…” Marceline makes a series of gestures and sounds reminiscent of a volcanic eruption. Bonnibel ponders what the artist is trying to communicate.

            “Do you want me to sell it to you?”

            “NO!” Marcy shrieks. “DON’T EVER SELL THAT TO ANYONE, LIKE KEEP IT IN A SAFE!”

            “Okay, calm down.”

            “Sorry. Just let me in, are we the anti-Val’s Day crew or not?”

            Bonnie steps aside and starts making introductions around the room. She beams with more than a drop of pride as the other freshmen (“The Princesses,” as the group of friends has been dubbed by the dorm) are awed by the presence of an upperclassman. Five ladies sit on pillows and blankets on the floor, and another six occupy the two beds. Marcy, feeling strangely off kilter here, sits next to Bonnie and Ellen on one of the beds. The movie marathon begins.

            The anti-Valentine’s Day movie marathon party turns out pretty well. Some of the girls start leaving after the second movie. After the third, only a few ladies remain. Finally, it’s just Marceline, Bonnibel, and Ellen.

            “Should I get going so you two can sleep? Monday night and all?”

            “No, you don’t have to,” Bonnie says, blinking slowly. “I actually need to stay up a while to finish a lab report.”

            “Glad to be in science classes now?” Marcy asks.

            “Mhmm.”

            “Like,” Ellen starts, “We should totally watch an episode of Doctor Who.”

            “I won’t get anything done if we do that!” Bonnie says with a smile.

            “Like, duh?”

            “I’ve never seen Doctor Who,” Marcy admits. Ellen’s jaw drops and even Bonnibel looks incredulous.

            “What?”

            “Blink. She has to watch Blink right now!” El proclaims.

            “That is actually a good idea,” Bonnie agrees. She’s already fishing through the Internet.

            Half an hour later, Marcy is screaming.

            “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, WOMAN?! YOU ARE GOING TO DIE!”

            “Marcy!” Bonnie says, laughing at the sight of this tall punk freaking out over a TV show. “Calm down.” El just giggles and fiddles away at her smart phone. Bonnie suspects she’s live-tweeting this event.

            “Bonnie, how can I calm down?! Look at these angel things—HOLY SHIT DID YOU SEE THAT ONE MOVE?!” Marcy screams, frenetically scooting away from the TV screen as though the monster of the episode might crawl out at here. “They are going to die. They’re going to all fucking die.” She looks over at Bonnibel, then back at the screen. “Bon, do they die?”

            “I can’t tell you that, Marcy.”

            “HOW CAN YOU NOT TELL ME?!” Marceline cries, holding onto Bonnie’s arm with a vise grip as the weeping angels claim another victim. She pulls Bonnie in front of her like a guard, peering over her shoulder in terror. Ellen shrieks with laughter, kicking her legs in enthusiastic accompaniment to her guffaws. But Bonnie feels strange. Marceline has never been the one to be afraid… Or at least, never in front of her before. She feels very aware of her arm, still held by Marceline’s hands.

            When the show ends, El sits back on her bed and falls away instantly. Bonnie is struggling to stay awake, her head jerking up every few seconds from a sleepy stumble forward.

            “Okay,” Marcy says. “I think it’s time I go.”

            “Let me,” Bonnie yawns, “Walk you there.”

            “Bon, no, go to sleep.”

            “Just to the front door, I insist,” Bonnie says, standing now. So Marcy rolls her eyes and follows Bonnie out the door.

            “So,” Bonnie begins, hoping that talking will keep her awake. “Did I tell you about the solar car club I’m in?”

            “Your what?”

            “I guess not. I’m in a club that designs a solar-powered car every year for an international environmentalism competition.”

            “That’s pretty cool,” Marcy says, nodding.

            “Mmm. And apparently…” Bonnie yawns again. “Apparently our presentation team did really well at nationals this weekend.”

            “Oh hey, that’s great Bon! How well is really well?”

            “I’m pretty sure our team’s going to the final tournament.”

            “Tournament? You mean like a race?”

            “I think there’s a racing component, yeah.”

            “That is _so_ cool, Bon! So where’s this final thing?”

            “Geneva.”

            “What?!” Marceline stands in place in the elevator, even as Bonnibel exits and the doors ding and start to close. Bonnie rushes back and shoves her arm between the doors. They open again. “You’re going to Geneva?”

            “No, the presentation team is going to Geneva.”

            “Oh… are you on the presentation team?”

            Bonnie shrugs. For some reason her face feels hot, but she can’t discern why. “As a back up, in case someone gets sick. I am only a freshman, after all.” She steps backward, asking with a tilt of her head if Marcy’s ready to leave the elevator.

            “Okay,” Marcy nods. She follows Bonnie out into the dorm lobby. “Ah, that’s really great, though. Seriously. I didn’t know you were even on the team. Er, club.”

            “I’m surprised I hadn’t mentioned it before,” Bonnie says with a smile. Licking her lips nervously, she looks up at Marcy as they stand facing each other before the exit. She looks like she is staring off into space trying to think of something to say, but when her eyes linger on, Bonnie looks behind her to follow Marcy’s gaze. A man in a suit is on the television in the lobby, titles and maps and graphs surrounding him as text scrolls along the bottom of the screen. “What is it?”

            “They’re… talking about the Iran stuff. Iran and Israel, now, I mean. And if those two are sizing each other up, soon it’ll be everybody: Saudi, Jordan, Syria, Egypt…”

            “Do you think there will be a war?” Bonnie asks. It’s a risky question, and not only because of the myriad layers of history and politics associated with the region. Marceline herself is risky. For all her bravado and all her extroversion, she thoroughly guards her private thoughts. Unless she’s trying to get a reaction out of someone.

            Marceline sighs. “You wanna go for a walk?”

            “Are you kidding me?” Bonnie asks incredulously. She looks up at the clock on the TV screen. “It’s… good god, it’s two hours until my first class. No, I need to go to bed.”

            “Skip class.”

            “I can’t skip class!” Bonnibel insists.

            Smiling a bit again, Marcy shrugs. “Why not?”

            “I _don’t_ skip class,” Bonnie says.

            “Look Bon, going to sleep now is not going to make tomorrow—eh, today—any easier than if you stay up for those two hours. So you might as well stay up a bit longer, skip your morning classes and sleep then.”

            “I’m in my pajamas.”

            “And I’m wearing the same clothes I had on yesterday, okay? I practically look like the walk of shame. Look, let’s just sit outside on the steps here, hm?”

            Bonnie thinks. She does want to keep talking to Marceline, there’s no point in denying it, to herself at least. An hour and a half of sleep surely would not be adequate rest, Marceline has that point in her favor.

            “Fine, but only for a little bit, it’s pretty cold.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Marcy says, but she smiles broadly and holds the door open for Bonnibel. It really is cold outside, though, and she feels bad for asking Bonnie to step out in just a t-shirt and pajama pants.

            As Bonnie sits on the steps outside her dorm, she looks up at the touch of leather. Marcy’s taken off her coat and placed it on Bonnie’s shoulders, and before Bonnibel can object, she’s already speaking.

            “You know what my dad does for a living. He’s the head of a major weapons and war tech company.”

            Bonnie nods.

            “Have… you ever heard of the war that happened between Iraq and Iran?”

            “Yes,” Bonnie replies, bundling the coat around her. “Although I would hardly call myself an expert.”

            “Don’t have to be for now,” Marcy says, scratching her ear. She won’t look at Bonnibel directly. “You know that weapons coming from the same place were sold to both sides of the war?”

            “I did not.”

            “Hm… I way you can kind of think of it as is… well, war became a big part of the US economy after World War II, for example. War became very profitable for certain people, and it remains that way. The fact that some of the tech that’s sold isn’t allowed by international law, the fact that one company can easily give to two opposing sides, the civilian tolls…”

            Bonnie watches Marceline carefully, recognizing that her fatigue and the topic itself is leading to a rather disorganized dialogue.

            “Really, my dad’s a drug dealer, and the preferred addiction of his buyers is death. Horrific, painful death. Ethics isn’t really his deal. So I think… I think there will always be war until this addiction kills us—all of us—unless we manage to quit.”

            Bonnibel does not speak right away. “You’re a pacifist,” she says finally.

            “Good observation,” Marcy replies. She still looks like she’s bracing for something.

            “Because of your personal experience with your father’s business.”

            “Eh, with him in general.”

            Bonnie nods.

            “You don’t have to agree with me, ya know. I’m not proselytizing over here.”

            Bonnie wrinkles her nose. “Prosie-what?”

            “When religious zealots try to convert you.”

            “Oh.”

            After another pause during which both woman stare down at the ground in thought, Marcy stands. “I’ll leave you with that, I guess. Thanks for having me to your movie thing. I did have fun.”

            Bonnibel stands, too. She shrugs off Marceline’s coat and hands it back to her. “Do you really think it would work?”

            “What?”

            “Peace,” Bonnie says, but she’s not entirely sure what she’s asking. It’s a disconcerting sensation. “Do you think anything can actually be resolved if we take war off the table?”

            “Hehhe… Well I can see what countless wars over millennia have brought us to thus far. As far as I can tell it hasn’t gotten most people in the world out of poverty and into happiness—” She yawns. “And they say the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over again expecting different results. Just seems to me like maybe we should try something else for a little longer than the typical six months to two years.”

            “Hm…”

            Marcy doesn’t say goodbye. As Bonnibel watches her walk away, the faintest shadows rising into view with the sun, she thinks to herself that she isn’t sure if she agrees with Marceline’s view. But whether she agrees or not is beside the point. Marceline trusts her again, and that’s something for which to be grateful.

 

            “See you!” Lady calls from the door to Mike’s, the coffee shop. Bonnie waves to her from her table. As she turns to clean up the remains of their study session, an idea hits her. She reaches into her large purse and retrieves a cell phone.

            “Hello.”

            “Hey Marceline,” Bonnie says into the phone. “I’m over at Mike’s studying, and I wondered if you were at home and if you’d like to come over and join me.” Her fingers trace the cuts and rings on the table surface, and her heel taps anxiously against the floor.

            When Marceline doesn’t respond, Bonnibel continues. “Because it’d be close. If you were studying at home, but maybe you wanted some company. A study buddy. You know, since we missed our study sesh last week.”

            “I can’t.”

            Bonnibel’s eyebrows rise slightly. Marceline doesn’t say more. “Okay… Well that’s fine, I just thought I’d ask, just in case.”

            “I’m in the music rooms, I can’t, sorry,” Marceline says brusquely, then hangs up.

            Bonnie glares confusedly at her phone as if the device had sabotaged her invitation. _That was really weird_.

            Half an hour (and a few wrong turns) later, Bonnibel finds herself entering the arts center. Wandering the labyrinth of practice rooms, she huffs. _Clearly an illogical person designed this building. A scientist would have had the sense to use some sort of basic grid system._

            Then she spots her. She walks past the door and two others after it before she realizes and backtracks. Although Bonnie can’t see Marcy’s face through the small window in the door, she would recognize that wild black hair anywhere. With Marceline sitting at a three-quarters turn from the door, Bonnie allows herself the luxury to just watch a moment. Despite the soundproofing all of the practice rooms surely endured, the doors were a different story.

            The bow of Marceline’s cello seems to carry her whole body with it, swaying and arching in her chair. While one hand quivers with each movement against the neck of the instrument, the other arm carries her forward, back, and forth. Her legs and stomach and shoulders bear the weight of the cello, strong for her slender appearance. At times, she almost looks like she’s head-banging.

            However, when Marceline puts aside the cello, stands to kick the wall and literally bang her head against the wall, too, Bonnie rushes in.

            “Marceline! Stop!” Bonnie orders. “Stop!” She grabs Marceline’s shoulder and turns her.

            “Bonnie? What are you doing here?”

            “I—”

            “No whatever, I don’t want to see you right now,” Marcy says, holding up her hand in front of Bonnibel’s face. She steps away, turns her back on Bonnie.

            “I just wanted to see you,” Bonnie huffs. “You sounded all junked up on the phone. I only walked across all of campus and got lost—repeatedly—in this ridiculous building.”

            “I didn’t ask you to,” Marceline growls, stepping further from Bonnie’s attempt to come closer. “Just leave me alone, PB.”

            Bonnibel purses her lips, thinking. In short time, her eyes take in Marceline’s appearance: her hygiene, her body language, her face. Bonnie takes a deep breath and forces her own face to a neutral expression.

            “Marceline, what’s wrong.”

            Marceline prickles under Bonnie’s calm authority. _Who do you think you are?_ she thinks, shifting her hair through an aggressive hand, bouncing on her feet with shoulders hunched as though preparing for a fist fight. _Who do you think you are to have any right to tell me to tell you anything!_ With an enraged, strangled cry, Marceline lifts the spare chair in the corner of the room up and slams it down hard against the floor. It doesn’t break; she would have destroyed it if she had wanted. No, Marcy just wants the feel her hands press against something, feel her muscles and flesh react to something physical. The chair just seemed like a better object to express her physicality against than the human in the room, holding Bonnie tight without any promise that she might let go.

            Bonnibel’s eyes watch. Although she forces her body into as calm an appearance as she can muster, her heart pounds against her ribs at the sight of Marceline, pressing her angry power against the chair with hunched shoulders. After what seems to be several minutes of silence, the strawberry-blonde takes a tentative step forward. She edges forward until she’s just behind Marceline’s right shoulder.

            When Bonnie lifts her hand, she hesitates a moment, outside Marcy’s peripheral vision. She gently lays it atop Marcy’s shoulder, feels her jump slightly at the touch, sees her head turn slightly toward her in recognition.

            “Marcy?” Bonnie says. “What’s wrong?”

            Marceline keeps her head turned, though her eyes fade out. As she replies, Bonnibel realizes there are streaks from tears running down her cheek.

            “Simon died.”

            “Simon? … Your godfather…?”

            Marceline nods. Bonnie hadn’t noticed that Marcy had stopped breathing until she takes a shaky breath and finally looks her in the eye. Sighing, Bonnibel rubs Marcy’s shoulder.

            “I’m so sorry, Marcy.” 

            “It’s this piece,” Marceline says, stepping away. She picks up the music sheets on her music stand, starts to rearrange them and tap them against the top of the stand, fusses at them. “It’s just wrong. All anyone here talks to me about is my voice degree, how I’m finishing the voice major early and I need to be singing constantly—like I’m not already—and no one gets that I still have cello exams and gigs with Keila and Guy downtown and my own shit to deal with, it’s like they can’t be bothered to notice there’s more to life than this, there’s more to me than…” Marceline stops speaking when Bonnie places her hand on her shoulder again, this time facing her. When Marcy catches those sad, dark blue eyes in her gaze, she has to stop speaking.

To speak would be a sin.

            So Marcy looks away, though she does stay put this time. “It was really sudden. He never had much, for himself or to give to me and Marshall when we were little, but when he first started getting sick, he had a will drawn up. His lawyer says I get most of his stuff and the stuff he left to Marshall… And they want me to play at the funeral. Like…” She takes another shaky breath to keep from crying. “Shit, dude. I should be carrying the casket, you know?”

            Bonnie nods.

            “I don’t want to do this. I thought, when he got sick, I thought I’d be able to handle this, since I kinda already lost him. But no, it’s worse. Because I didn’t get to say goodbye. He didn’t really remember me from before, but he knew we were friends, and he died all alone. I don’t want this…”

            As Marcy goes quiet, Bonnibel doesn’t know how to respond. Trite pities are useless to say and worse to hear, she knows. After a while of trying to puzzle out something to say to Marcy, she realizes Marceline seems anything but uncomfortable with the silence. So, Bonnibel keeps her hand on her shoulder, remains silent. She only speaks when Marceline starts to try to look her in the eye again.

            “Do you… Would you like someone to go with you to the funeral?”

            A strange grimace crosses Marcy’s face. “You don’t have to do that.”

            “But do you want a friend to be there with you?” Marcy doesn’t reply. “Why didn’t you tell me before that you had a brother? Back in high school?”

            Marceline flinches. “I… It was still pretty fresh, Bon. Besides it was before we met.” _And I’m still not used to it,_ Marcy thinks.

            “If I hadn’t come here today, would you have told me about Simon? Or anyone? Keila or Lady or Jake?”

            Fidgeting again, Marcy says, “I don’t know.”

            “Come on Marcy.”

            “I said, I don’t know! Dude, I really don’t. I might have, maybe. Maybe I would have told Schwable.”

            “That doesn’t count.”

            “Schwable always counts!”

            “Marceline,” Bonnie warns.

            “No,” Marcy says finally, and Bonnie feels her heart protest again at the sound of it, half-lidded brown eyes looking through her, Marcy’s lips slightly parted as though searching for words to say.

            “You don’t want me there?”

            “No… This is something I need to do for myself.” As an afterthought, Marcy says, “But thank you.”

            “Are you sure? I… I don’t know what I would do if I lost Pepper, but I have lost… I do know what it’s like.”

            “No,” Marcy says, shaking her head. “You losing your parents… that’s a whole ‘nother ballpark from this, it’s a whole different experience and don’t try to say they’re the same. They’re not, and you shouldn’t minimize your loss by saying that, by doing that. My shit’s mine and yours is yours. You know, we can help others carry their shit maybe, but that doesn’t make it the same shit.”

            Finally, Bonnie nods. Realizing she still has her hand on Marceline’s shoulder, she awkwardly removes it, pressing her fingers together at the touch-memory of fabric.


	8. March

March

 

            In later years, Marceline will come to remember of this first day of March as a jumbled concoction of sensations: The smell of cheap cologne and flowers already dying; The drone of a fly; A sea of dark grey suits and clouds; The tension of her cello’s strings beneath her fingers; The numbness of her mind at the echo of eulogies; A distinct, clear thought cutting through the mist, that if Marshall Lee were here, he would have spoken, and spoken beautifully; The weight of the casket shared between her shoulders and five others; The slight sneers at the sight of her red suspenders; The feel of dirt slowly turning into mud under her shoes; The pressing silence around her as everyone leaves for the free lunch.

            “Here Lies Simon Petrikov | Beloved Friend And Teacher.”

 

            “Thanks for bringing my attention to it, Tuff,” Marceline says as her companion takes another sip of his beer next to her. They sit together in a hole-in-the-wall dive bar between campus and downtown, the kind of seedy looking place other college students would never dare walk in (which is just as well since, contrary to popular belief with the local law enforcement, the bartender here always cards). “I’ll keep an eye out for this guy at my next show. And hey,” she says, leaning over so they bump shoulders. “Thanks for coming by.”

            “Don’t mention it,” Tuff says, fiddling with an earring for a moment. “I’m glad we got to meet up since I’m just passing through.”

            “But I mean it,” Marcy says, “I never would have figured you’d remember me mentioning Simon. I appreciate it.”

            “Yeah. We’ll all miss him. To Simon,” he replies, lifting his glass. Marcy taps it with her own. “But I do hope you’ll think about coming around his hometown sometime. We all miss you, especially now. Think about it?”

            “Okay.”

            “Okay. I better head out before there are no more taxis that’ll take me to my motel. Good to see you, Marce,” Tuff says, standing up from his barstool. Marcy stands, too, and they hug. Without another word, he leaves the bar, leaving Marcy with her drink. _So_ , she thinks to herself, sipping slowly to enjoy that last of the liquid courage, _Someone’s been coming to my shows, someone who knew to call Tuff, someone asking if I’d be interested in signing with a label. Very weird._ She stands up again, pays her tab.

            As Marceline walks home, hugging her coat close to her in the wind, she fiddles with her cell phone in her pocket. For a few days she has wanted to make this call, ask this question, but she (of all people) hasn’t had the nerve. So when she steps into her apartment, she places the phone on the table. Marceline puts away her coat and shoes, gives Schwable a treat even though he has already had dinner, reviews some sheet music for class. But always she has the phone in her peripheral vision.

            Finally, after brushing her teeth and changing into a tank top and boxers, she carries the phone with her to bed. She dials.

            It rings three times.

            “Hey Marcy. What’s up?”

            “Yeah, you still awake?”

            “Obviously,” Bonnibel replies, and Marcy can hear her breathing. “I just got out of the lab. Now I get to write a lab report for this midterm group project. Are you studying, too?”

            “More or less, I was. Hey, I wondered, what’re your plans for spring break?”

            “Hm, sleep. I have a feeling I won’t be doing that much this week with all these tests and papers, haha!”

            “Haha! Are you nervous at all?”

            “No, I think I’ll do better this semester. Even my gen ed class will be okay, I think.”

            “That LGBT theory thing?”

            “Yeah, it’s actually really interesting! It puts things under a lens I hadn’t considered much of the time. But anyway, in all honesty, I’ll be staying on campus for spring break. Kind of lame, I know.”

            “No, it’s not lame at all! I’m doing that, too, so… I guess I’ll see you around then.”

            “Mmm, okay! And hey, how are you doing? After the funeral?”

            Marceline pauses, wishes she hadn’t been reminded. “I’ll be fine… sooner or later.”

            There’s a pause on the other end before Bonnie speaks, and Marcy imagines she forgot that nodding would have no use during a phone call. “Okay. Okay, talk to you later.”

            “Later, Bonnibel.”

            Marceline hangs up, looks at the phone in her hand. “You dumb shit, you still didn’t ask her!”

-

            About a week and a half later, Marcy calls Bonnibel. “You want to go for an adventure?”

            There’s a pause. “You know what? Sure.”

            “That’s it?” Marcy asks in disbelief. “No homework, no studying, no group meeting? Some crazy chick just calls you up and you just agree to go do something… with her?”

            “Marceline, you’re not just some crazy chick. And I’m bored, so yes. What’s the adventure?”

            “Uh… meet me outside your dorm in ten? And uh, dress warm, it’s not very spring-y outside yet.”

            Marceline leans against the passenger side of her Beetle, one leg bent with her toes on the ground. When the door up the front steps of the dorm opens, she looks up. A chilly breeze sweeps Bonnibel’s hair from her face so that the sinking sun bathes her in warm light. She really didn’t dress for warmth as much as Marcy would like, but she really does look good in the pink dress, the tall boots, the black blazer.

            “So what’re we up to?” Bonnie asks as she approaches Marcy and the car.

Marcy simply steps aside and holds open the door.  “Get in,” she says, smiling kindly. Bonnie complies, watching her suspiciously. Marcy walks round and sits in the driver’s seat. She takes them to the highway, heading west out of town and refuses to answer any of Bonnibel’s questions. By design or no, the car becomes fairly quiet in short time.

Eventually, Marceline takes them down a side road, then a dirt road. If Bonnibel had been with anyone else, perhaps she would think this would be the start of the story of her horrendous homicide. _With Marcy, no._ _She could do it_ , Bonnie thinks, sending Marcy a sidelong glance. _If she wanted to. But she wouldn’t because…_ Marceline catches Bonnie looking at her, so she pulls a face, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes. Bonnie laughs. _It’s not her style._

They turn off the dirt road, driving straight through a field of tall grass. Bonnie clings to the door handle as the old Beetle bumps and hops across the uneven ground. Finally, Marcy kills the motor, turns out the lights, and after a brief pause, gets out of the car. Bonnie follows suit, but she struggles to see through the dark.

“This way,” Marceline’s voice says from somewhere nearby.

“I can’t see you,” Bonnie says, blinking rapidly, the light of the car’s headlights still echoed against her eyelids. Marceline walks over to Bonnie’s side— _She can hear me at least_ , Marcy thinks, watching Bonnibel turn her head at the sound of her boots tramping over the grass and stone—and pokes her shoulder.

“Here I am.” Marcy shifts the blanket to her other arm and loosely grasps Bonnie’s elbow. “Come with me.” She starts to step forward, but Bonnie fidgets under her grip. Thinking she doesn’t want to be touched, Marcy lets go.

“Wait,” Bonnie says quietly, and Marcy feels her fingers fumble against her shoulder blade, her triceps, then shyly wrap around the back of her hand. Marcy swallows, feeling something tumble against her diaphragm. “Okay,” Bonnie says, still blinking into the dark.

Marceline guides Bonnibel slowly, walking across the field and through a small copse. As they come to the other side of the trees, Marcy can feel Bonnibel taking surer steps, moving in her usual, deliberate manner. She loosens her fingers around Bonnie’s, who lets her hand linger a moment before letting go. As they step out of the shadow of the grove, Bonnibel gasps.

            “We’re here,” Marcy says, smiling at Bonnie’s reaction.

            Before them, a large outcropping of rock is covered in thinner, softer grass than in the field behind them. It shimmers silver under the starlight. But the main attraction is those stars. Bonnibel cannot begin to fathom how many she can see above and around her, twinkling and dancing in their solar systems.

Never has she seen so many stars. Never has she seen the Milky Way so clearly with the unaided eye.

“What is this?” Bonnie asks, breathless, as Marcy unwraps the blanket under her arm. From within the blanket’s folds, she pulls a thermos and sets it aside and unfurls the blanket on the ground.

“The call it Doorway to Heaven or Doorway to God or something like that. It’s one of those things people talk about at the U, something you’re supposed to do before you graduate and move away. Only not many people actually come all the way out here, so a lot of it’s just talk.” Marcy plops down on the blanket, reaches over to the thermos. Bonnibel slowly walks over, still keeping her eyes skyward. “Don’t worry,” Marcy says pouring some of the thermos’ contents into the lid, laughter hidden in her voice, “It’s hot chocolate, not coffee. You want the cup of the thermos.”

“Um, the cup, I guess,” Bonnie says, sitting. Marcy passes her the lid-cup.

For a while, they sit in relative silence, sipping at their drinks. Marcy giddily points out a fox weaving through the trees behind them before it sees them and leaps away. Bonnie finishes her cup and returns it to Marcy, smiling peacefully as she watches her friend’s calloused fingers cover the thermos again. When she sets aside the container and leans back on her hands, her legs crossed in front of her, Bonnie unconsciously mimics the position.

“You know,” Bonnie says, “Several years ago, the NASA scientists operating the Hubble telescope decided to turn it and take a picture of a piece of the sky that looked empty, just the dark nothingness of space.”

“Okaaay,” Marcy says quietly. “Why?”

“Just to see what was there, just because,” Bonnie says. “Sometimes scientists do nonsensical things, too.”

“Hmph,” Marcy replies, smiling.

“Anyway, they left the camera open for a while and looked at the image, fully expecting to just see a big black vacuum. But what they actually had an image of was light from billions of galaxies. The light from those galaxies took trillions of years to reach us. Just this one tiny bit of black space in the sky, secretly filled with light.” Bonnibel ends in a whisper. Her wrists have started to hurt, so she lies down. She can see Marceline sitting beside her as she looks up at the Milky Way. When Marceline looks down at her, she can feel her heart flutter about, feel her lungs taking giant breaths to calm it down, and she thinks she might finally be grasping why her body is reacting this way.

“That’s quite poetic, Bon,” Marcy whispers, smirking. “I never knew you had a romantic side. I might have to steal that from you.”

“You have my permission.”

Marcy nods, smiling. Although she isn’t tired, Marcy’s eyes are half-closed, peaceful. She can’t resist looking over all of Bonnibel. Her hair fans beneath her body, which arches slightly against the bend of the earth beneath her. Wide hips curve into legs, each bent slightly at the knee. Hands fold primly on her stomach below an ample pair of breasts that leaves Marcy wondering when _that_ happened since their falling out.

She realizes Bonnibel has caught her looking at her body when she sees Bon’s face, blushing pink. Politely, Marceline looks away at the stars again. “We’re pretty small,” she says. “When you think about it, when you think about those billions of galaxies or whatever, we’re just this little blip of life. Like a little grain of dirt or something. I mean, you probably know better than me what odds there are that maybe some other life exists out there, but for all intents and purposes, we could be the only life we ever encounter… We could be the only life. In all of this,” Marcy says, gesturing at the sky, “And we waste out time trying to destroy each other, trying to say this little part of our speck is more important, or something…”

With a sigh, Marceline lies down, too. They remain silent for a while. Marceline points, turns to Bonnie to check if she saw the falling star. But before she can speak, she realizes Bonnibel has been looking at her, not the sky. She freezes, swallows at the look in Bonnie’s eyes. Absently, she remembers that the blanket she brought is kind of small, so really it shouldn’t be so shocking that they’re lying so close to one another. And really, wasn’t that kind of by her own design?

Marceline rolls onto her side, props her head up on her hand. Cautiously, she reaches out, delicately sweeping some stray hairs out of Bonnibel’s face. Letting the back of her hand graze Bonnie’s cheek, she watches as Bonnie’s chest rises and falls in time with the touch. It trembles… Bonnibel trembles. _Never managed to do that to someone before,_ Marceline thinks, _just touching her face…_

“Is this a date?” Bonnibel asks.

 _Really, you had to go ruin it?_ Marcy thinks, feeling herself squirm at the mood being interrupted. When she looks back at Bonnie, she hasn’t moved. She just watches, her whole face a perfect neutral. _Scientists,_ she thinks mercilessly.

Marceline replies, her voice strained, “That’s up to you to decide.”

Bonnibel blinks. Marceline feels tension build in her body with every second that passes without a response, verbal or physical.

“Lay down.”

Marceline’s eyebrow rises, wary. “It’s not very polite to tell me what to do, Princess—”

“Marceline, _please!”_ Bonnibel says, clearly exasperated. _Is she tense too?_ Marceline wonders. Slowly she moves her arm down, rolls onto her back, keeping her eyes on her companion. Black hair pools around her, covering the blanket.

At this angle, Marcy’s neck is also exposed. Bonnie notices… Suddenly, she isn’t sure if she’s just never seen Marcy from this angle before or if her hair was always in the way or maybe just the angle of the light, but she’s certain she’s never seen those scars on Marcy’s neck before. Curiosity overwhelms her, lifting her closer and urging a hand out, but something makes her pause. Marceline’s eyes dart from Bonnie’s to her hand.

As Bonnibel reaches out, Marceline holds her breath, gasps and licks her lips when she feels fingers trace around her ear. Bonnie rubs the lobe of her ear, Marcy bending into the sensation, until her fingers move, tracing Marceline’s jawline, her cheek.

“Marceline,” Bonnibel whispers, stars reflecting in her eyes.

Marcy reaches out. “Come here.”

The next thing they know, they’re wrapped up in each other. Marceline feels Bonnibel’s hands shake, even as they grasp at he cheeks, pulling her close as they kiss. She smiles into the kiss, gently soothes her hands down Bonnibel’s back, takes it slow. Bonnie’s sigh blows out her nose, encouraging her. So Marcy runs her hands across, up, and down, Bonnie’s back, and she keeps her jittery legs as confined as possible. With a few more kisses, she feels Bonnie’s body relax into her embrace. A few more still, and Bonnie’s hands start to roam bit by bit, brushing the nape of Marceline’s neck, her collarbone and shoulders, her ribs. When one hand rubs her ear again, the other lightly raking nails against her shoulder blade, Marcy moans, and Bonnie’s reaction is immediate, drawing Marceline closer and casting a leg over Marcy’s hips.

“Whoa!” Marcy gasps, smiling.

“S-Sorry!” Bonnie whispers, looking genuinely afraid.

“No, it’s good! Heh, it’s hot,” Marcy replies. Taking advantage of the slight disengaging of their lips, she tilts her head to kiss Bonnie’s face. Still caressing Bonnie’s back reassuringly, Marcy follows the line of her jaw with her lips, leaning up to suck on Bonnie’s earlobe. Fingernails press harder into her back. Marcy grins at the sensation.

As Marceline floods Bonnie’s senses, she feels like her brain is firing a million times faster than usual but in a very disorganized fashion. She has no idea what it is she is thinking, what actual thoughts are being thought; riding wave after wave of new awareness floods Bonnibel. The lack of organization and control frightens her terribly. However, the physical idea that Marceline’s body, pressed tight against her, might depart from her at some time fills Bonnibel with insatiable need.

Marceline brings her lips back to Bonnibel’s, pulling the sweetest little whimper Marcy has ever heard out of Bonnie’s mouth. She darts her tongue out, licking against Bonnie’s lips. Although Bonnie pauses briefly, she opens her mouth, suddenly understanding. As much as Marcy wants to sweep her tongue through Bonnibel’s mouth, tasting the last little bit of the hot chocolate, Marceline holds back, keeping herself at the entranceway. When Bonnibel’s tongue finally meets her, she retracts, coaxing her. _There you go!_ Marcy thinks as Bonnie starts to trace her lips and her teeth and the tip of her tongue. She moans to Bonnie in appreciation.

For her part, Bonnie can sense her understanding of the theory of relativity shifting from broad principal to physical fact. Until something undeniably pulls her brain back to full capacity.

“Wait, pause!” Bonnie whispers.

Marceline’s whole body tenses, freezing in place. She doesn’t dare move, so she lies there and takes a mental note of where exactly she is: One leg rests between Bonnibel’s, her face presses against the corner of Bonnie’s lips, and one arm holds Bonnie close while the other hand rests just atop Bonnie’s breast.

They look at each other, Bonnie analyzing but unsure, Marceline patient but questioning. Realizing Marceline is not going to move an inch until she gives the cue, Bonnibel speaks.

“I… I’m not sure...w-…”

Marceline screams internally, but she loosens her grip and shifts back some. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay? Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll stop now. You decide what it is you want,” Marcy says. Taking a deep breath, she fully removes herself from Bonnibel, and Bonnie misses her presence and warmth already.

“It… It’s just I’m very new to… all this. I… need to think before doing much more.”

Marceline nods. “Do what ya gotta do.”

Bonnie nods back. Quickly, Marcy stands, offers Bonnie a hand.

They clean up their spot in the starlight quickly and silently. When they go to return to the car, Bonnibel takes Marcy’s hand, however. The whole drive back to the university, Bonnibel holds Marceline’s hand.

When Marceline finally gets home, leans into the door to her apartment, it’s so late that Schwable visibly jumps, startled awake a few feet from the door where he was waiting for her.

“Hey, dog,” Marcy groans. She shuffles to the bedroom, Schwable shuffling along behind her, and falls onto her bed, asleep before she hits the mattress. When she wakes the next day, her pillowcase is tear-soaked.


	9. April

April

 

            Bonnie hasn’t seen Marceline since that night during spring break. She hasn’t called Bonnie, and to be fair, Bonnibel is okay with that, although she finds she misses study sessions at Mike’s. Her study sessions with Lady and Jake continue, and Lady manages to keep Jake from grumbling too much about relocating from their favorite coffee shop. Not that Bonnibel has told either of them about what happened. Bonnie hasn’t talked to anyone about it. Although it’s possible that Marceline talked to Lady, she makes no indication one way or the other besides respecting Bonnie’s request to move locations.

            She thought about talking to her professor of her gen ed class. “Cookie,” as she’s called, is head of the Women’s and Gender Studies department, after all. But the idea of sharing details of her personal life with anyone, especially a professor, leaves a metallic taste in her mouth.

            Ellen keeps asking her why she isn’t talking much, but Bonnie just says she’s focusing on her studies. She wants to improve her GPA after the first semester. Which is true… but not entirely.

            So when the First of April rolls around, Bonnibel braces herself. Almost the moment she steps out of the dorm early that morning, heading out for Beginner’s Korean II, she sees the campus transformed. Streamers and beads and Christmas lights and banners—purple, red, and black for the school colors—cover everything. It rather looks like someone bought out several drug stores’ holiday supplies, everything from Christmas and Mardi Gras to Halloween and Passover. Students and faculty alike walk around in costumes. Tables line the quad, clubs passing out info and giving away free joke books, free whoopee cushions, free clown noses, free candy, free noisemakers, and more. Hillel is even giving out hamentaschen.

            Throughout class, noise builds outside, making it rather difficult for Bonnibel to concentrate on her conversation exercises. That said, her class partners don’t notice her to be any more or less distracted than she’s been since spring break.

            Bonnie puts her textbook away as she steps out of the building after class. Suddenly, people are cheering, so she looks up. Students have set up a stage in front of the student union building not a hundred feet from her. The student body president, dressed up in school colors, emcees, welcoming students to the Third Annual Spring Fools Festival. Bonnibel works her way around the laughing, cheering crowd waiting for the talent show and subsequent march around campus, when she hears El’s voice above the din, shrieking, “OHMYGOD LOOK!!!”

            Bonnie doesn’t see Ellen, but gasps and pointing direct her attention away. A person is climbing up the steep roof of the student union building. Someone with long black hair.

            “Oh my god,” Bonnie gasps, feeling like she might choke. Other students reacted similarly.

            “What does she have in her hand?”

            “Is she nuts?!”

            “I know, Marceline is _fearless!”_

            “That is so hot.”

            “No it’s not, what if she falls!”

            “Is that—?”

            “IT’S FTU’S FLAG! SHE STOLE OUR RIVAL’S SCHOOL FLAG!!!”

            Bonnie squints. Sure enough, as soon as Marceline reaches to top of the roof, she unfurls a large banner of orange and white. The crowd cheers wildly (and as the twitter-verse explodes, others come rushing out of neighboring buildings) as she ties the flag under the U’s own school flag. When the job is complete, she turns around, pumping her fists, and the student body screams in adulation. But then she disappears from view, and Bonnie starts to run away from the crowd.

            Her heart feels like it’s going to beat out of her chest. Bonnibel feels absolutely shocked that she could have such a visceral, powerful reaction to seeing Marceline again. She keeps running when a sound system buzzes on, when a familiar voice speaks.

            “Hey monsters.” The crowd cheers.

            She doesn’t stop retreating, but Bonnie does look back. From further up the quad, she can see Marceline and three other tiny figures standing on top of the student union building.

            “Like our Prez said, welcome to the Fools Festival. Happy Birthday to me and all that. But hey, today’s about all of us at the U letting go, being wild, and having fun before finals sucks out our souls!”

            “WE LOVE YOU MARCELINE!” some screams, and Bonnie shudders to think that might be El.

            “THANK YOU FOR STARTING THE BEST FESTIVAL EVER!” someone else shrieks. Soon everyone is screaming.

            “Whoa whoa, chill out,” Marcy says over the microphone. Bonnie marches onward. If she can just get off the quad, she might not be able to hear anything.

            “So for your opening act, may I introduce to you the Scream Queens. Our first song is dedicated to two folks. One, some who helped me when I was little, and the second, a cool kid brother of a friend of mine who left the world too soon.”

            Bonnibel freezes. She can’t look back, she can’t risk it. Music starts pounding into the sound system, flooding the entire campus.

            “Is it just you and me in the wreckage of the world?”

            Bonnibel runs.

 

            “PB WHERE ARE YOU?!”

            “Ellen,” Bonnie moans, her head under her pillow, “You don’t have to scream.”

            “El,” her roommate corrects. “And I need your advice. Do you ice a black eye?”

            “What?!” Bonnie sits up. Sure enough, El has a quickly darkening eye. She smiles. “What the lump happened to you?!” Bonnibel shrieks, jumping up to look for a cold-pack in their mini fridge.

            “Oh, like, it was wild! Were you, like, at the Fools Festival?”

            “No. Here,” Bonnibel says, handing El the pak.

            “Thanks! So like, first was this talent show thing, and everybody did like, amazing stuff, but _nothing_ as amazing as MARCELINE STEALING FTU’S SCHOOL FLAG AND ROCKING OUT ON TOP OF THE STUDENT UNION!”

            “El, focus! Eye!”

            “Like chill, PB, I’m getting there. Like, after the show, we were doing this march around campus, so Marceline and the band and the student president were like leading the way, and we passed by ROTC, okay, and like, some of the ROTC students thought Marceline’s band was singing anti-war stuff, and apparently there’s like, maybe something going on in the news or the Middle East or something? Like I don’t know! But they got crazy mad and Marceline was like, ‘chill out dudes!’ and they were all like, ‘Screw you, foreigner!’ and then like I guess one of the girls in Marceline’s band is black and one of the ROTC guys said something and Marceline PUNCHED HIM IN THE FACE!”

            “WHAT?”

            “I KNOW!” Ellen shrieks, practically jumping with joy. “And so a fight started, and like a bunch of the junior and senior ROTC students were like trying to pull the younger ones away from the fight, and Marceline’s drummer and the student president were trying to get the festival guys to back off, but Marceline was like, beating the SHIT out of these freshmen, and UGH! IT WAS AMAZING!”

            Bonnibel feels like she might throw up.

 

            News of the festival and the fight spreads quickly. It starts, of course, as front-page news in the student paper the next day. Bonnibel picks up a copy.

There’s the main story describing events, with statements from the head of ROTC condemning the freshmen members’ racist statements but also saying they were provoked, from the student president (accompanied by a picture of him spitting blood as somebody hits him) defending the marchers, and from the President of the U, stating vaguely that an investigation would be held. Next to it is a piece, titled “So what _is_ happening in the Middle East?” And there’s a general review of the festival itself, with a brief mention that it’s a shame it had to end the way it did. Someone even did a full-page interview with the Scream Queens, both on their music and the fight, accompanied by a stock image from one of their performances and another picture of Marcy and Keila in the midst of the brawl.

            The next day, the city paper does a feature on the fight, using it to examine the intricacies of US relations with Iran. It also runs the Scream Queens article (the student reporter who wrote it, the U’s Arts and Culture editor, will win an award for it later in the year). A week later, the New York Times is covering the story in its front section.

            Bonnibel feels the days go by in a blur, as though she exists separate from everything around her: the bustle of journalists, the awakened political conscious of students, the anxious administrators… She can’t focus on any of it. Most of her time is spent in the lab working on reports for class, or pouring over books in her dorm room with Ellen. On her desk, a card bought two weeks ago with cheery handwriting—“Happy Birthday Marcy! (: “—remains unopened. A single rose next to it wilts.

 

            Marceline paces the sidewalk with her cellphone, pulling her navy blazer tight around her as winter makes one last attempt to fight off spring’s onslaught. “Tuff, I… Look, it’s not like I can just drop everything and… I… I CAN’T JUST FLY OUT TO NEW YORK, I DON’T MAKE THAT KIND OF MONEY!... They what? … Dude, you’re not my mother! And you’re not my fucking agent either!... I respect that opinion, but still…. Look, Tuff, I’ll think about it. I gotta talk with the others anyway, okay? Just tell him I’ll think about it. You know, haggle a bit or something.” She pauses to take a sip from her coffee, a Mike’s red-eye. “I promise, I will think about it, but I got responsibilities, you know?... Haha! Yeah I know, I know, imagine me saying that… I didn’t ask to be the face of the movement, whatever the hell it is. Okay? You gotta understand, Tuff, things are bad enough with my dad as it is, if I do this it… Yeah… Yeah, yeah, okay. Okay. Mhm. You too. Take care. Peace.”

            She hangs up with a sigh, leans back on the heels of her bright red boots. Hesitantly, she stretches her back like the doctor showed her. “Aahhh!” she winces. _Still sore_. At least by now most of the bruises were gone. As she stands up straight again, her fingers fiddle with her phone absently. Eventually she looks at it… and dials.

            “Hello, Marceline,” Lady’s sweet voice gently greets.

            “Hey Lady, hi. Um, look I uh… I have a favor to ask.”

            “Okay?”

            “I… I have this disciplinary hearing I have to go to in uh… lessee, about half an hour. Do you think you could maybe… See, I think Bon—er, PB—is kinda mad at me, or she would be with this whole fight thing, or whatever, but I… it’d be a lot to me if she maybe was there? And I don’t think she’ll pick up if I call her, but I thought maybe if you asked for me, she might? What do you think?”

            There’s a pause. Marcy bites her lip, tapping her heels impatiently.

            “Marceline, did something happen between you two?”

            “Uhhhhh… Honestly, I’m not exactly sure.”

            “Hm. Okay, I will call her, and then I will call you back. But I warn you, Marceline, in the immortal words of Hermione Granger, I am not an owl.”

            “Got it. Yes, thank you.”

            “And Marceline?”

            “Hm?”

            “If you hurt her, I will end you.”

            _I’d like to see you try, but point taken._ “Yes, ma’am.” Lady hangs up, and Marceline waits. After a few minutes, she gets impatient, so she starts walking toward campus. For once, she doesn’t think being late is an acceptable option. Twenty minutes and a push through a few journalists later, she’s standing in the hallway, staring at a door, when her phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket, expecting a call, but instead it’s just a text message.

            Lady: Sorry ):

            Marceline grimaces down at it. Just then, a thin man with a stupid-looking mustache opens the door, and she hides the phone away in her pocket as she follows him into the hearing room.

 

            “So what happened?” Keila asks.

            A small group of people sits around Marceline’s apartment as she handed drinks around: Keila, Guy, and Bongo/Augustus, of course; Jake and Lady; Tuff drove in to town just to see her; and Schwable, of course. Bonnibel is notably missing.

            “Well it’s like this,” Marcy starts, sitting down next to her dog on the couch. Schwable happily scoots close to her. “They couldn’t expel me for the fight itself—most they could do is suspend me—although that _plus_ stealing FTU’s flag, _plus_ just creating the Fools Festival a few years ago—you know the admin, they’ve never liked it—plus all my day to day antics… I mean, they really made it clear that they could have just kicked me out if they wanted to.”

            “But they didn’t?” Jake asks.

            “Nope. I have basically been assigned a lot of community service next semester.”

            “How?” Guy asks.

            “Apparently, the New York Times reporter was still hanging around. They put off the hearing so long because they were hoping all the press would clear out, but like, if they kicked me out, it’d be big news or something, so I’m safe as long as I behave on campus for the rest of the semester and do my service in the fall.” Marcy smiles, arrogantly. She takes a swig of her beer.

            Lady swills her wine glass around. “What about off of campus?” she asks.

            Marcy, tapping her heels nervously, glances up at Tuff.

            “Arguably, it’s a public university. By definition, I have a right to be here as long as I pay tuition and ain’t failing classes, and I’m not. So yeah, technically, if something happened off of campus, I’d be okay.”

            “Like if she participated in a protest outside the country’s largest, most infamous weapons company,” Tuff interrupts, “She couldn’t be expelled for that.”

            “I haven’t agreed to that, Tuff.”

            “You should!” he says, standing. “I’m telling you, you and the Scream Queens have got to take advantage of this attention. It’s _nation-wide!_ Yeah, this city is great for the indie and punk scenes, but how often does a _local_ band get national attention like this?”

            “You’re not our agent,” Guy states matter-of-factly.

            “You’re right. I’d be willing to change that.”

            “No, Tuff!” Keila protests.

            “You can’t,” Marcy adds, “The night café is the only good place back home for our musicians, for the outcasts. You can’t leave them without that place.”

            “Hey, I could do it remotely,” Tuff says defensively, taking a swig of his beer as he walks over to the windows. He smiles as Schwable bounds off the couch to his side.

            “Marceline and I are still in classes, though,” Bongo says.

            “We can’t ask them to give up on degrees,” Keila agrees. “Yeah, it’s a rad opportunity, but y’all can’t just give up on all your hard work.”

            Marcy starts to nod when Jake pipes up. “Are you sure?” he says. “I mean, all you get in the news these days is how much debt our generation is taking on, just to get degrees that don’t get us jobs, or we do get jobs that aren’t very good. Like, yeah, I’m one to talk getting a music degree for _viola_ for Pete’s sake, but maybe Tuff has a point.”

            “Well of course he has a point,” Keila says. “But it’s not like anyone’s approached us or anything.”

            “That’s not entirely true,” Marceline says.

            “Huh?”

            “There’s…” Tuff starts, then looks to Marcy. She shrugs. “There’s a guy who’s been coming to most of the shows Marcy’s been at. Even when you or Guy are solo-ing and Marcy’s just doing back up. He got some of her back story, heard she used to work at my place back in high school, and gave me a call. Apparently, he’s a prospector for Vandalism Records, and he liked what he heard. He’d taken some recordings at shows to send to his boss—“

            “ _Vandalism Records?!”_ Keila repeats faintly.

            “—but he wanted to know if I had anything more official, like an EP. When I said no, he reached out to Marcy. That was before the festival stuff happened. But then his boss sees the whole band in the Times and, so I guess he didn’t listen to his kid’s recordings before then, but then he did, and he liked what he heard.”

            “Tuff just told me all this today,” Marcy says to Keila, Guy, and Bongo. “Before the hearing. Because I wasn’t freaked out enough.”

            “Haha!” Tuff sticks his tongue out at her.

            Lady, who has consumed three-fourths of her wine by now, raises her hand.

            “Lady, you don’t have to do that,” Jake says.

            “Excuse me,” Lady says. “But what does this mean?”

            “It means the one and only Lord Vandalstine of Vandalism Records _likes our stuff!”_ Keila coos.

            “Lord?” Jake asks.

            “He’s British,” Bongo explains. “He was a teenager, I mean like a roadie, for the Beatles.”

            “He must be mad old,” Jake says. Bongo, Lady, and Marcy laugh, but Keila just glares.

            “How old he is is beside the point,” Keila says.

            “He wants to meet you all,” Tuff says.

            “Can he wait until their school year is over?” Guy asks, looking at Marceline and Bongo.

            Tuff pinches his lips together, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not sure. Actually, I think he really wants to see you before that. From where they’re sitting, they see a month out and think this whole story will be old news by then. They want to meet the band and—you know, if you agree—get going right away to take advantage of hype, you know?”

            Keila sighs. “God, it would be so amazing! And Jake has a point but… we can’t ask that of you two,” she says to Bongo and Marceline, who looks away guiltily.

            “But,” Tuff says, “I have an idea.”

            “What’s that?” Lady asks, a little suspicious.

            “He already told us his idea,” Marcy says. She looks back up at everyone, Tuff in particular, her usual cocky grin on her face. Her band mates lean forward in eager anticipation. “There’s this group of college kids around the country—I think the ones in charge are in New York?” Tuff nods. Marcy continues, “Right, so they want to do protests and marches against going to war, saying it’s all about the vice president trying to get oil supplies for his company—which it totally is—and when some of the organizers heard about the festival shit, they decided to approach us. They looked us up, and the only guy who knew how to get ahold of us was that Vandalism Records guy, who gave them Tuff’s number. Tuff told me about them earlier today, too. Apparently they’ve already got a march to my dad’s office planned, they just want us to show up.”

            “Just imagine,” Tuff says, smiling, “what Vandalism Records and what these protestors are going to do when they find out this one here is the daughter of the CEO of NightSphere?”

            “Shit their pants,” Guy breathes, stunned.

            “It’d be more than enough press to satisfy Vandalstine to let Bongo graduate in May, at least. It would encourage an anti-war movement to grow at the U. And, it would be a great way to stick it to your old man, Marce,” Tuff says.

            Marceline chuckles. “I do like that, I’ll admit. Still, using a protest, using a possible war for our own publicity? Kinda sick.”

            “You’re already against the war. The protestors asked for you. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Tuff says. Jake seems to think it over, nodding slowly.

            “Damn,” Bongo says, visibly relieved by the idea that he could still graduate and meet Lord Vandalstine. “You _are_ our agent.”

            Tuff shrugs. “I do what I can for the kids that work with me.”

            “What about Marcy?” Lady asks. A moment passes with no response, just the sound of traffic and rowdy pedestrians outside.

            “A technicality might not keep the disciplinary team from expelling me,” Marceline replies at last. “And even if they don’t kick me out, we won’t know Vandalism Records’ conditions—if they’d want us to tour for a year or something—until we meet with them. Again, technically I could apply for a year-long deferment, but ain’t nobody in that administration got time for that.”

            Jake blows out a lot of air, sagging into the couch. “Shit.”

            “Cheers to that!” Marcy laughs.


	10. May

May

 

            Bonnibel doesn’t recognize the number on her phone’s screen when its ringing wakes her. She blinks, the fuzzy film of sleep still heavy over her eyes. At first, she groans irritably, thinking she’ll hang up. Then she realizes she fell asleep at her desk again. Sighing heavily, she taps the button with her thumb and raises the cellphone to her ear. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

            “PB?”

            Bonnie blinks a few times. She’s sure she knows that voice.

            “PB, it’s Keila. We met at Marceline’s Halloween party?”

            “Oh. Oh, hey Keila,” Bonnibel says, rubbing her eyes. She turns off her desk lamp and heads out to the hallway, hearing Ellen mutter in her sleep behind her. “Well Keila, do you have any idea what time it is?”

            “Very much so,” Keila groans back.

Bonnie blinks rapidly in the bright, flat light of the dorm hall, but it helps her brain to start. “So to what do I owe the pleasure?” she asks, sitting against the wall with her knees brought up to her chest.

“It’s Marceline.”

“…” _Oh_.

“She needs your help.”

“What’d she do now, get arrested?”

“Yes,” Keila groans.

“Wait, _what?!”_ Bonnie replies. Keila tries to explain, rapidly, but it’s all jumbled. “Whoa, whoa,” Bonnie says, “slow down, start over.”

“There was a protest,” Keila repeats, sighing. “Students from the U and some other universities in the area and some out-of-staters came to protest the war, you know? Because the government keeps pressing for it, even though like nobody actually _wants_ to go to war because it’s basically just a ruse to get the VP’s company access to oil fields, right? And there’s a contract in the works between the military and Marcy’s dad’s company, so a bunch of students put together two protests, one at the DC headquarters of the oil company and one outside her dad’s offices upstate. And the band, you know our band, the Scream Queens? We decided to go. At first it was fine, but Abadeer-Senior called the governor because of the bad press or whatever, and they send in not cops, but like SWAT TEAMS! It was a fucking nightmare, like something from a horror flick or the 1960s. And Marcy was just shouting into the mic not to fight back, don’t piss ‘em off, just everybody play it safe, but then somebody hit her back…” Keila’s voice cracks.

“Her back?” Bonnibel asks. Strange, morbid calm settles over her.

Keila sniffles. “Yeah. You know, she got hit there pretty bad at the fight at school. She’s only just been getting over it, and now this. I’m going to call her doc for her after this, but… Look, I’m at a payphone outside the jail where they were keeping all of us. The charges were all totally bogus, so they just kept us into the middle of the night, then woke us all up to make our phone calls. My boyfriend came and bailed me out, but Marcy’s the only one left. Can… can you come get her?”

Bonnibel can’t help it. She has to have answers first. “How do you even know my number?”

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!” Keila shrieks—Bonnie has to hold the phone out at arm’s length—clearly at the end of her rope. “That woman will not shut up about you! For weeks, while all this shit’s been going down, all she talks about is you AND IT HAS BEEN DRIVING ME CRAZY!”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Bonnie hisses.

“Yeah, you’d better be!” Keila sniffles. “I didn’t mean to blow up like that, but _damn, girl_.”

“Couldn’t she like… bail herself out though?” Bonnie asks. “I mean, I’m sure her dad’s mad at her, but it’s not like he can clear her bank account out.”

            “She didn’t tell you?” Keila asks.

            “Tell me what?”

            “YOU MEAN THIS WOMAN’S BEEN TALKING MY FUCKING EARS OFF AND SHE HASN’T EVEN TOLD YOU ABOUT THIS FAMILY SHIT?!”

            “Ow! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

            “Oh! Oh, I’m gonna kill her! Dammit, PB, her family don’t help her pay for school.”

            “What? Really, not at all?” Bonnie asks incredulously.

            “No! She’s not a business major or pre-law, so her dad cut her off. Only reason she can go home for holidays is her mom. And she refuses to take loans, so she just works.”

            “You mean she pays for school just from her band performances?”

            “Well she does weddings and nice restaurants with her cello, too, plus tips. And I think she got some huge scholarship or something. And I think she work part-time at the hardware store next to campus. Man I don’t know, ask her, I’m not doing her relationship for her, dammit.”

            _How the lump did she ever have time to hang out?_ Bonnie wonders. “Keila, Keila, hey! Look, I don’t have a car. I haven’t even spoken to her in weeks.”

            “But do you think you could pay bail?”

            Bonnibel sighs. Briefly, she remembers the last time she checked her account balance, pulling the memory up before her mind’s eye. “I could afford it.”

            “Then you can take Marcy’s car. We came up here by bus.”

            “What am I supposed to do, hotwire her car?!”

 

            Finally, finally the engine roars awake. “SCIENCE!” Bonnibel cries in triumph.

            “Did it work?”

            “Yeah it did! Unh! Who da scientist?”

            “Great, now drive it!” Keila says, having switched to her cell phone a while back once it had charged in her boyfriend’s car.

            “Uhh…”

            “Don’t tell me.”

            “I kind of haven’t driven in a long time,” Bonnie admits, rubbing her fingers over her pink, flannel pajama pants as she sits in the driver’s seat of Marcy’s car. Her nerves are shot enough with the lack of sleep, the news about Marceline being injured and in jail, and having to sneak past her apartment’s security guard to get to her car. She isn’t sure she can handle driving on top of all of this. Not to mention finals starting next week.

            “Okay,” Keila says. “How long is a long time?”

            “Three years?”

            “Shiiiiiit,” Keila moans. In the background, Bonnie can hear her boyfriend going, too. “Oh man. Aw man! Shit, oh man.”

            “I’ve got my reasons, okay?” Bonnie shrills at them.

            “Did you ever get your license?”

            “Yes,” Bonnie lies.

            “Good enough.”

 

            Marceline hasn’t slept all night. She lies on the jail cell bench, one arm draped over her eyes, moaning.

            “Murraaaaay,” she moans. “It’s meeee. I didn’t even steal anything. You’d be proud, I haven’t stolen anything since high school. Been real good about not smoking things, too. I wasn’t even drunk. Pleeeeeease, Murray, lemme out.”

            Somewhere around the corner, she hears a sigh. “Marceline, you know I want to, and I don’t know how y’all did it, but you pissed off the governor, for fuck’s sake. If I let you out, I don’t just lost my job, I lose any job in the state. I’m sorry.”

            “Fuuuuuuuuck yooooooou,” Marcy groans.

            “I get that a lot.”

            “Just like the ol’ days.”

            “You can still make your phone call,” Murray says, his curly red mustache popping into Marceline’s line of vision, on the other side of the bars. “Maybe your mother could come get you? Or any family friend?”

            Marcy blinks sadly at him. “You know I can’t do that.”

            “Well I’m just trying to help, maybe you can and you just _think_ —“

            “Just think what?”

            “Excuse me, miss, can I help you?” Murray says loudly.

            “Murray? Murraaaay? Come back you big prune,” Marcy moans.

            Bonnibel hears Marceline’s voice echoing from behind the door, behind the round-looking man, behind the tall desk in the front lobby of the station. “I’m here to get Marceline Abadeer. That is, I’m here to pay her bail,” she says rather decidedly, despite her grumbling innards.

            Officer Murray looks Bonnibel over. He’s not leering at her, he’s just… confused, Bonnibel decides. She guesses most people who come to post bail don’t arrive in pink pajama pants, a worn out rock t-shirt, and socks. But he clicks his tongue, shakes his head, and reaches for a form.

            “Name?”

            “Bonnibel Becke.”

            He pauses, holding his breath, and she knows he recognizes the name. He didn’t recognize her before, but she remembers him from that day. He glances up at her before writing her name down. “Can you show me a US state or national-issued ID?”

            Bonnibel starts digging in her shoulder bag.

            “Murray, get your fat ass back here and let me out!” Marceline’s muffled voice calls from behind the door. Bonnie can’t help but chuckle. She hands the officer her passport.

            “Hmm. Okay, here’s that back. If you could fill out these forms, then just come back and pay the dollar amount on the bottom, that’ll be it. In the meantime, I’ll take Mar—ah, Ms. Abadeer—her forms for the state and you can be on your way,” Officer Murray says. He opens the door to the back—Bonnie hears Marcy moaning, just moaning nothing specific—and disappears behind it. So Bonnibel takes a seat in the lobby. Before she gets started, she sends a text to El now that the sun is up so she doesn’t worry. She yawns, then sets to work.

            “Murray, where you been?” Marceline groans. He stands right by the head of her bench, on the other side of the bars of course, with a clipboard.

            “Fill these out, Marce,” he says, holding the clipboard out, his arm reaching through the bars. “And don’t you come back here,” he adds.

            Marceline furrows her brow at him, but she reaches out and takes the clipboard.

            Several minutes later, Murray returns with Marceline’s forms Bonnibel finishes her own. She briefly calls Keila: “Okay, okay so you got the doctor? And what did he say? Mhm. Okay. All right, I’ll look after her. I’ll text you later today. Oh, and Keila…? I… I just want to say I’m sorry. For what those guys said at the festival… Mm. Right. Of course. See you later.” Hanging up, she walks up to the desk.

“Is it okay if I write a check, sir?” Bonnibel asks Officer Murray.

            “That’s just fine, Ms. Becke,” he replies. “Between you and me,” he adds conspiratorially, “I suspect you’ll be getting this money back.” As he takes her check and staples everything together, he sighs. “Damn Abadeer. Don’t know what kind of man sends a private militia after his own child, let alone a bunch of other harmless kids. Stoned maybe, but damn. Don’t care what you think o’ war, that man’s gone and embarrassed the whole county, and he’ll know it soon enough, no matter how many benefit dinners he throws.”

            Bonnie just nods, trying to avoid anything too political in a police station.

            “Well,” Murray says, standing his wide girth up. “In any case, them newspaper and blogosphere types have probably covered it all quite thoroughly. I expect we’ll see something in the paper today.” Bonnie shifts from foot to foot. Murray laughs. “All right, all right, come on. I think she’ll need your help getting out of here.” He opens the door and calls, “Marceline! Get your sorry ass up, your chariot has arrived!”

            “Murray! Murray you sick little tired fat—“ Marceline stops, her cocky smile falling off her bruised face. Bonnibel, in pajamas, follows Murray into her field of vision. Marcy tries to sit up quickly, but mainly manages to fall off the bench. “Ow.”

            “Marcy!” Bonnibel squeaks. Murray quickly unlocks the cell. Bonnie rushes to Marcy’s side, gently lying her hands on her arm and shoulder. “Marcy, come on, let me look at you,” Bonnie says.

            Marceline turns pink as she slowly pushes herself up to kneeling. Seeing her face, Bonnie is filled with a mix of empathy for her wounds and mirth at her reddening skin. Seeing this mix on Bonnibel’s face, Marceline feels herself turn redder from head to toe. Not knowing what else to do, she glares at Murray, who quickly leaves, chuckling to himself.

            “Come on,” Bonnibel says, facing Marceline. “Let’s go.”

            Marceline grimaces with every step, despite leaning heavily on Bonnie’s shoulders. When they exit the station, the sun just starting to come over the nearby trees, Bonnibel rushes off to drive— _My car?_ Marcy wonders—as close to the doors as possible. She gets out again, helping Marceline sit in the passenger seat and lean the seat back.

            “Okay,” Bonnie says a little too cheerfully. “So here’s what I know: Keila got a hold of your doctor at the student health center. He can see you first thing tomorrow. So we can drive straight back to the city now, or… Ooo is a lot closer. We can go to my house. Pepper can help us get you patched up for the day, we can rest some, then head back tonight. Which would you prefer?”

            “Bonnie,” Marcy breathes, looking up at her. “How…?” She can’t believe she’s here, after a month of nothing, no contact at all. Marceline looks away, feeling her eyes start to sting. Quickly, she lifts an arm up, wiping at them.

            “Marcy,” Bonnie gasps, “Are you crying?”

            “No!” Marceline cries. Bonnie giggles sympathetically. As she reaches out, Marcy speaks abruptly. “Just-just-let’s just go to your place or whatever, just drive!”

            Bonnibel stays her hand. She smiles to herself, but obeys. As they turn out of the parking lot, Marcy’s hand grips the door handle with all her remaining might, and she’s convinced this is the day she will die.

 

            Marceline slowly lowers herself to the bed in Bonnibel’s room. As she settles onto the mattress, she sighs and carefully moves her wet hair from beneath her to her side. Out in the hall, she hears Bonnie’s footsteps, knocking on the bathroom door. “Marcy?” Bonnie calls.

            “In here,” Marceline replies. She looks over just as Bonnie opens the bedroom door. Bonnibel pauses there, staring at her. Marcy can’t help but blush again, seeing a pretty young woman in a sundress stare at her. “Dude, stop it.”

            Bonnibel shakes her head, smiles. “Sorry,” she says, closing the door behind her. She sets a steaming mug down on the bedside table. “Here, Pepper made tea for you.”

            “He didn’t look too pleased to see me,” Marceline comments, slowly reaching for the hot mug then hugging it to her chest.

            “To be fair,” Bonnibel says, walking around to the other side of the bed and sitting down, “He wasn’t that pleased to see me either. Pepper just likes having a plan, keeping a regular schedule. Unannounced guests are not usually in any day’s plan.”

            Marcy smiles, taking long sips of her tea.

            “I’m glad that bathrobe fit you after all,” Bonnie comments, leaning on an arm, closer to Marcy. “It would have been a shame if it was too small for you.”

            “Oh, would it?” Marcy says, smiling. She wiggles her eyebrows a couple times at Bonnie, but Bonnibel just sticks her tongue out at her.

            “Let me open the windows,” she says, standing again. “It’s really quite a lovely day outside.” Dappled light and the smell of the apple tree in the back yard suddenly surrounds Marceline. Bonnibel returns, sitting on the bed, and Marceline places the now empty mug back on the little table. Although she tries not to move too much, she reaches out toward Bonnibel’s hand. At first, Marcy isn’t sure how this act will be received, but much to her surprise, Bonnibel takes hold of her hand and squeezes.

            “I’m sorry, Marceline,” Bonnibel whispers. Her blue eyes look up. Marcy tries to hide a shiver. “I mean, all of this… I don’t much care for politics. I suppose if I _had_ to deal with it, I could, but I’d much rather be making sweet science.” She giggles nervously, but Marcy keeps her eyes on her. “But that isn’t the point. That’s not the point at all,” Bonnie continues. “I think… I was afraid. Like I was afraid before. Really, back in high school, I think I was afraid even then. Of you.”

            “Me?” Marcy says, smiling widely. “Little ol’ me?”

            “Yes, you,” Bonnie says. Her fingers start to lightly caress the back of Marceline’s hand, her wrist, her forearm. “I dated some after we, well you know, but just guys. Nothing really stuck. And then during spring break…”

            Marceline bends her elbow, gently taking hold of Bonnibel’s arm. It’s all she can think to do to reassure given her current state.

            Bonnibel breathes, shakily. But she squares her shoulders and continues calmly. “While fear can be informative, I should not have allowed myself to be controlled by it.”

            Next thing Marcy knows, Bonnibel is lying down on the bed beside her, turning to face her, giving her a look that sends electricity through her body and back, and she can’t help it but she feels her eyebrows jump up her forehead and her jaw slacken and her arm literally jumps when Bonnie touches her again.

            “The truth is…” Bonnie whispers. “I… I really care about you, Marceline. A lot more than I realized.”

            _Clearly_ , Marceline thinks, knowing full well that she had to have hotwired her car and must have driven all night long. Not to mention the fact that she is currently sidling closer to Marceline. Who is only wearing a bathrobe. On a bed.

            “I’m just… so sorry it took me so long to figure myself out,” Bonnibel continues, her breath on Marceline’s ear. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you when I guess I could have been, with all this, this…”

            “I think you kind of,” Marcy starts, but she has to pause, swallow. “I think you made up for it, what with driving hundreds of miles and getting me out of jail so I don’t have to lie on a cold bench in pain.” She smiles over at Bonnibel, and when Bonnie smiles back it just makes Marcy want to dance, shout, and sing.

            Ever so sweetly, Bonnibel nudges Marceline’s chin toward her with the back of her hand. For a second, they remain there, breathing each other with their lips less than an inch apart. Then Bonnie closes her eyes, leans forward.

            Marceline breathes in deep and sighs as she kisses Bonnibel again. She had thought she missed these lips, but oh, she had no idea she missed Bonnie _this_ much. And Bonnie’s kissing her hard, sucking on her lip, hands holding her face and carding through her hair. Bonnie moans, and Marcy can’t help but smile into her kisses because, _God that moan!_ For her part, Marceline’s not actually entirely aware of what she’s doing for Bonnie, being largely immobile, but whatever it is she hopes it happens again. That is, until:

            “Bonnie, Bon, back. Back? Back, Back, BACK!” Marceline cries out.

            “Sorry!” Bonnibel murmurs, quickly shifting her weight off of Marceline. “Sorry, I’m sorry!”

            “It’s okay,” Marcy says, taking a few breaths. She looks back at Bonnie, who, seeing her smile, carefully lays her head on Marcy’s shoulder. It hurts a little, but Marceline doesn’t tell her. Instead, she lazily closes her eyes, letting peaceful sleep wash over her.

            Marceline sleeps the entire day, waking just for a meal before they drive back to the U. She sleeps through the entire drive, too. Bonnibel half carries her into her apartment and stays with her there overnight.

            When the doctor comes in to the student clinic room where they sit the next morning—Bonnie on a little chair, Marceline on the examination table—he sighs in relief, saying her back is much better than he feared. Her black eye and scabbed knuckles, on the other hand, could stand to improve.

 

            Bonnibel leads the way into the auditorium, marveling at the size and grandeur of it as Guy, Keila, Bongo/Augustus, Jake, and Lady follow her as she bolts around the crowd for the best seats. Jake gest a dirty look from one of the old men in attendance, so he quickly shoves his hors d’oeurvre in his mouth and wipes his hand off on his suit jacket. “Man, you’d think a guy can’t eat his cracker and cheese and shrimp thingie in peace,” he complains.

            “Jake, this way!” Lady whispers, her shimmering multi-colored cocktail dress quickly bringing Jake to her side.

            “What’s the first song?” Guy asks, pulling at his tie and sitting down between Keila and Bonnie.

Keila gives him a warning look as she glances between him and Bonnibel. “Hell, I dunno, why are you asking me?”

Bonnie holds up her program. “Let’s see… Geez, these lights aren’t that bright, why do they give us programs anyway?”

“Senior Recital - Voice, Miss Marceline Abadeer, Class of—” Guy reads over Bonnie’s shoulder until the lights lower further, and the auditorium’s attendees find their seats.

“There are a lot of people here,” Bongo whispers. “I mean, I had a lot of people show up for my senior recital on Monday, but this is kind of intense.”

“Yeah, who are all these people?” Jake says. Lady shushes him. “No seriously, you never get this many people for a viola recital!”

Bonnibel bites her lip, eyes searching for the stage lights. It’s been a rough week. She made very effort she could to help Marceline get to daily doctor’s appointments, all so she could stand up straight for this performance at the end of the week. With orders to rest as much as possible, Marceline begrudgingly accepted Bonnie’s aid around the apartment, too, especially in the Schwable department. But she also had her own finals to study for and take, and as much as she prides herself on her prowess in the sciences, Bonnie feels rather like her tests chewed her up and spat her out. Plus, she had to see off the solar-car club’s team headed for Geneva. And, to be honest, she’s spent a few bathroom visits mildly freaking out about all this news from Vandalism Records Marcy mentioned. So despite having seen Marceline a great deal this week, Bonnibel hasn’t a clue what to expect.

The stage lights rise on a piano, a pianist, and her page-turner. Quickly, Bonnie opens her program and scans for the title of the first piece. " _Ständchen_ , R. Strauss,” she whispers. Around her, people start clapping and she looks up. From stage left, walking tall and confident, comes Marceline. Bonnie’s transfixed.

“Whoa!” scream-whispers Jake over his own clapping. “She wore red!”

“Is that important?” Lady whispers back.

“Eh, I don’t know about other schools, but here, you’re generally supposed to wear all black for your senior recital. I mean, yeah she’s still a junior, but it is her absolute last voice major stuff and—”

“Shhh!” someone behind Jake hisses.

“Pardon me,” Jake says loudly at him.

Bonnie smiles, and then returns her gaze to Marceline. _God, it’s even got a slit by the leg_ , Bonnie thinks, licking her lips and eyeing the neckline of the gorgeous dress.

As the applause dies down, the pianist readies herself. She tinkles away at the keys, and suddenly the most shocking thing happens.

Marceline sings.

Not one person in Bonnie’s row manages to keep their mouths closed.

_Oh…_

_My…_

_God…_ Bonnibel thinks. _She does opera. She can do opera. In German._

            It’s a relatively short song. The entire auditorium breaks into applause immediately. Bonnie sees Marceline scan the crowd, then smile brightly down at her row. When Bonnibel looks over, she sees the same mesmerized look on all of Marcy’s friends. Then, just as suddenly, the clapping stops, and Marceline’s singing again. In Italian.

            _I am going to die of arousal. Beside the tomb of my parents and brother, my grave will read: ‘Here lies Bonnibel Becke, who died listening to a girl sing in Italian!’_

            The Italian one is long. Very long. Bonnibel could not care less. Still, when Marceline finally finishes, she darts her eyes down at her program again. She manages to see Debussy is next, but she misses the title and looks up quickly. Whatever it is, Bonnibel feels like she’s dying blissfully at the sound of it. When the piece is over, she finds herself strangely sad. The fact that this music is affecting her at all confuses Bonnibel. Meanwhile, Jake and Bongo hoot and holler appreciation.

            The lights dim for several minutes, and the auditorium fills with the sound of hushed voices. When the lights rise again, Marceline isn’t there. And there’s a different pianist. Actually, the lighting seems different.

            “What are you doing the rest of your life?” Marceline sings, slow and powerful, the pianist watching her carefully for tempo cues.

            “Holy shit, it’s jazz!” Jake whispers-shrieks delightedly, ignoring the shushing man behind him.

            “I have only one request of your life… that you spend it with me…”

            “Did you know she could sing that low?” Guy whispers—actually whispers—to Keila.

            “Nope.”

            “All the seasons and times of your days… All the liquors and dives of your days…”

            Bonnibel could swear Marcy’s dark eyes hit her then, daring her to deny their gaze. She sits up, leaning forward even, feeling, for every bit of logic in her brain, twice as much lost in some new transcendental place. Marceline sings song after song, easily shifting from one subtype of jazz singing to another, until finally ending on Gershwin’s “Summertime,” when the pianist and page-turner step off stage, leaving just Marceline clapping out a rhythm that miraculously has the whole auditorium audibly toe-tapping.

            The moment the last note is sung, the audience stands as one, clapping enthusiastically. While Jake and Bongo resort to more hollering, many more behind them shout for more. Marceline smiles, feigning modesty—Bonnibel laughingly recognizes the ruse—and steps away from the stage. But he clapping continues.

            “Hey,” Guy says. “Where’d Keila go?”

            Marceline comes back out on stage, bows again, and exits. Still, the attendees beg for more. Bonnibel pulls and tucks her dress, hoping she looks all right. Then someone else comes out on stage.

            “Keila?” Bongo exclaims, then slaps his hand over his mouth. The crowd watches curiously as she sets up two guitar stands, places an electric guitar in one and a bass in the other, plugs them in and checks the tuning. Finally, she nods off stage. As soon as Marceline steps back on stage, the crowd begins clapping again, but they quickly settle when she raises her hand, smiling at them all.

            “Thank you,” Marceline says. “Thank you all. Really, thank you. So, as some of you may know, it is traditional for a music major to perform an encore at their final recital, a piece of their choosing that holds some personal meaning for them, and I would be wont to ignore such a time honored tradition.”

            The row of Marcy’s friends snickers. Somewhere in the back, someone shrieks, “I LOVE YOU MARCELINE!”

            Marceline blinks in surprise, while Bonnibel just hides her face in shame. _Ellen, no._

            “And I love you, too, I suppose,” Marcy says with a smile, and the auditorium chuckles with her.

“Anyway,” she continues, casually lifting the bass guitar and arranging it into a comfortable position. Although she keeps up appearances, Bonnie grimaces, remembering how much Marceline groaned at the doctor’s office just this morning. “I’ve asked my dear friend, Keila, who is not a student here at the U, to accompany me. This is a song I would hope you’ve all heard before, even if it isn’t the usual fare in this hall. It’s one of the very first songs I ever learned to sing, and tonight I’d like to dedicate it to someone very special. You know who you are.” The crowd chuckles along, but Bonnibel gulps, feeling even more self-conscious. “The son is titled, ‘Something,’ by The Beatles.”

The crowd claps again, and anyone who wasn’t already sitting does so now. Without a drummer, Marceline and Keila just watch each other, nodding off a tempo to each other, until Keila mocks a drum, scatting, “Bumpa-da Bumpa-da Bum!” Instead of her guitar taking the lead and playing the famous riff, however, Marcy’s bass plays, portraying a depth Bonnie had imagined, having rarely heard Marceline play her favorite instrument.

 

“Something in the way she moves

Attracts me like no other lover

Something in the way she woos me

I don't want to leave her now

You know I believe and how…

 

“Somewhere in her smile she knows

That I don't need no other lover

Something in her style that shows me

I don't want to leave her now

You know I believe and how…”

 

Keila, her feet banging out the drum section, starts singing harmony, and Bonnie grabs onto both arm rests beside her seat when Marceline, her eyebrows knit together apologetically but her mouth smiling in delight, looks right at her.

 

“You're asking me, will my love grow?

I don't know, I don't know!

You stick around now it may show

I don't know, I don't know!”

 

They even reworked the guitar solo for bass. Off to Bonnie’s side, Lady can be heard squeaking happily, looking back and forth between Marcy and Bonnibel.

 

“Something in the way she knows

And all I have to do is think of her

Something in the things she shows me

I don't want to leave her now

You know I believe and how…”

 

And then, a few notes later, the tribute to The Beatles is over, and the audience all but explodes. At the back of the auditorium, a young man working for Vandalism Records stumbles out of the room with his tape recorder like a drunk, determined to find a phone so he can play the cover to his boss immediately, convinced that he’s found pure gold.

 

[I recommend checking out this Youtube channel for some idea of what kind of singing I’m talking about, the singer is a friend of mine… In fact I stole all the song titles from her performances, minus the Beatles of course. Just imagine it’s Olivia Olsen: http://www.youtube.com/user/ElizabethZitoSings?feature=watch]

 

 

            “MARCELINE!”

            Marceline laughs in delight as her friends run at her in the middle of the post-recital, surrounding her in an enormous hug, nearly knocking over the table of drinks set up for the prestigious guests.

            “Ahh, lemme down, lemme down! Hey hey, easy on the back! Dammit, Bongo, let go!”

            As they put her down again, Marcy sees Bonnibel walking slowly toward them. Lady, seeing this, quickly shoos the males toward the drinks. Marceline takes a long moment to take in the sight, to make sure she remembers it, and Bonnibel lets her. Her hair is all done up in some fantastic knot worthy of the Lord of the Rings film, while her black dress with lady sleeves but no shoulders moves around her like water. She has to look away when guests approach to shake her hand, but quickly returns her attention to the most important woman to ever look so hot.

“Would have figured you would have worn pink,” Marceline comments, trying to hide just how happy she is.

“Oh shut up, you Vampire,” Bonnibel mumbles as she steps forward and they hug each other tightly.

            “Thanks for coming, Bon.”

            “Of course!” Bonnibel says. Her fingers play with Marcy’s long, flowing hair. Bonnie whispers, “Come with me.”

            Marceline, still held tight by Bonnibel’s embrace, turns her head slightly, her eyes darting around the room. “Bonnie?”

            “Please?” Bonnibel whimpers.

            She _whimpers!_ But even thought Marceline’s fairly certain Bonnie can feel her heart ramming against her chest, she can’t resist playing a little more. “You know, I’m supposed to be like… greeting people. They’re supposed to be important or something. Like some of these folks donate large sums to the school or whatever. I should really schmooze up and be responsible.”

            “Marceliiiiine,” Bonnie moans quietly, tucking her face into Marcy’s neck.

            “Uanh!” Marceline moans in response, not so quietly. She realizes that folks are beginning to notice that she’s been hugging this girl in black for a rather long time. _Let ‘em look_ , she thinks defiantly. All the same, better relocate. “Okay. Yeah.”

            Bonnie looks up, smiling at Marceline as she pulls away some. She weaves her fingers in between Marceline’s and starts walking away from the gathering space. Marcy hums to herself as they walk down the adjacent hallway, feeling like this entire school year has been some kind of crazy miracle that’s finally revealed itself to her. Bonnibel starts swinging their hands together.

            “So you know that last song was for you, right? ... Whoa!”

            Before Marceline knows what hit her, Bonnibel is pressing her lips against her own with so much force that she backs into the wall. In seconds they’re messing up each other’s hair. Marcy leans her head back against the wall as Bonnie kisses her jaw, her neck, her shoulders. She moves her hands from Bonnie’s face to her back, pulling her closer.

            “WHAAAAAAAT?”

            Marcy and Bonnie look up, back down the hall, both of them smiling drunkenly as Jake, followed by Bongo, points and stares and laughs and claps and hollers.

            “Get your own, Jake!” Bonnie shouts back, making Marcy and the boys laugh. Then Keila comes over, visibly scaring them.

            “What is this all about? What are you two making a scene about? Oh… Well don’t just stand there, you pervs, move! Get! Get! Lady, come help me!”

            Marceline and Bonnibel separate, laughing as Keila and Lady chase the boys away from the hallway… and more when Lady sneaks a second peek.

            “Let’s get out of here, huh?” Marceline laughs. “My place?”

            “I’ll drive.”

            “HA! No.”


	11. Epilogue

            Marceline struggles with the key at her apartment, Bonnibel holds her from behind and kisses her exposed shoulder blades. _Open, dammit, open!_ Marceline thinks, pushing on the door as she tries the key again, never having experienced such desperate need to _know_ a woman. Finally the lock clicks, and the pair lurches forward.

            Schwable barks at the pair. Marceline dashes for the closet, kicking off her heels as she goes, pulls out the dog food bag and pours out an inordinate amount in his bowl, glad to keep him busy. When she looks up, Bonnie is smiling at her. Then the strawberry-blonde turns away, meandering toward that bedroom with the amazing view of the city at night. She steps out of her shoes as she goes. Running up behind her, Marceline laughs into Bonnie’s ear, hugging her tight from behind and ignoring what protests her own back makes.

            As they enter the bedroom and Marceline simultaneously kicks the door closed behind them and gently bumps Bonnibel onto the mattress. She crouches down at the edge of the bed, lightly laying her hands on Bonnie’s knees, making sure Bonnie sees that she is not taking a peek too soon. Still, she can’t resist playing with her prey a little.

“Do you have any idea what I could do to you?” Marceline says, gently kissing a kneecap.

Bonnie sighs. “Do you have any idea what you’ve already done to me?”

At that, Marceline just stares, feeling her whole body shiver in delight. Soon she’s pulling at her dress, shouting, “Get me outta this!”

Bonnibel giggles uncontrollably, but she sits up and lifts the red dress from Marceline. Suddenly, a lithe woman in lacy, black underwear and bra is crouching before her, and Bonnibel freezes, shocked. It is Marceline, and it’s not. Vaguely, she recalls having never seen Marceline in so little as a bathing suit. Marceline sees the look on Bonnie’s face and recognizes it for what it is immediately, although she’s a little frightened to acknowledge it. Then she remembers what Bonnibel said about fear.

So Marcy smiles back gently, leans forward, and kisses Bonnie, just barely bringing a hand to her cheek. Sure enough, Bonnibel kisses back, even bites her lip, and Marceline opens her mouth. She lets Bonnibel explore a bit before seeking entrance herself. Bonnie happily complies, leaning back as Marceline situates herself on all fours above her.

“Marceline,” Bonnibel gasps as Marcy pulls away. She flips her hair so a curtain of black falls on just one side. Looking down at Bonnie, Marceline knows this is exactly what she wants, but she needs to know for certain.

“Do you want this, Bonnibel?” she asks seriously. “You sure you wanna sleep with me?”

Bonnie nods.

“Are you _sure_?” Marceline insists.

“Yes I’m sure! Now kiss me!”

Marceline smiles, her eyes sparkling, and Bonnibel wonders gleefully what she’s gotten herself into. Instead of leaning down to kiss her, however, Marceline wedges her hands under Bonnibel’s back and lifts the two of them into a seated position. “First thing’s first,” she says, straddling Bonnie. “We’ll need to undress you.” She kisses Bonnie’s forehead, raking her fingers up Bonnie’s back until they rest just below her shoulders. “Please kiss me.”

“So polite,” Bonnie whispers, but she leans forward. With Marcy—already taller—sitting on her lap, Bonnibel can’t really reach her lips, even as Marceline leans forward to slowly unzip her dress. She settles for Marcy’s jaw, her neck, her arms, until Marceline groans.

“Bonnie, please!” She sounds rather desperate, as though Bonnibel’s denying her something. Then it hits her that if she just looks forward, she’s about level with Marceline’s petite breasts. _Ooooohhh my god._

With her dress’s zipper undone, Bonnibel tugs her sleeves off, letting the top of the dress fall away from her. As she watches Marceline take in the spectacle—Bonnibel knows perfectly well that she has filled out nicely since she was thirteen—she lifts her hands to Marceline’s dainty peaks. Almost immediately, Marceline is biting her lip, arching her back, shaking her head. She moans, strangled against her teeth, as Bonnibel starts to massage her, leaning her forehead against Marcy’s sternum. There, she can feel Marcy’s heartbeat echo through her.

Marceline reaches around her own back. Bonnibel feels the tension of the bra loosen under her palms. “Please,” whispers Marcy, shrugging away the garment. “Please Bonnie?” Her calloused fingers weave into Bonnibel’s up-do, cradling her skull and pulling her closer. Bonnie, grateful for some instruction about what to do in the midst of this new experience, hums. She kisses her jaw again, letting Marcy’s bra fall. However, before she can fling it away, Bonnibel gasps sharply at the touch of two hands sliding under her own strapless bra, cupping her. Her head falls forward against Marceline’s sternum, jaw slack. Marceline pecks the top of her head, nuzzles her face into Bonnie’s hair.

            Marceline stops. Bonnibel looks up to see Marcy smiling, tilt her head, raven hair flowing around her. She takes hold of Bonnibel’s jaw and pulls her face to the left. Bonnibel looks into her eyes, brows knitting together. Biting her lip, Bonnie moves her hands to Marcy’s sides, caressing her. What she wants to do is hold tight to her because she’s afraid again. “I haven’t done this before,” she says, so close that her lips brush against Marcy’s nipple as she speaks.

            “You say that,” Marcy breathes, “like it’s a bad thing, Bonnibel.” She hasn’t finished speaking, but seeing the tenderness on her face—such a beautiful expression Bonnie doubts she has _ever_ seen on Marceline’s face before—Bonnie can’t resist licking at the little bud in front of her. Gasping, Marcy continues, “That’s not… the point at all, Bon. The point— _aah!_ —is it’s you and me.” Her tone changes, “You don’t take much convincing.”

            “Mmm,” Bonnibel moans, sucking away. She does cling tightly to Marceline now, desperate to feel her thrash against her skin. Hands tug at her strapless bra, but Bonnibel holds them together, too tight for the garment to fall away. Marcy, her legs and torso squirming, clutches Bonnie’s head and neck, suddenly pushes them down to the bed again. A smacking noise—Bonnie’s lips are pulled away from the cherished nipple. Marcy’s tossed their bras across the room and now shimmies herself out of her underwear. Although Bonnibel wants to pause, to look and explore, Marceline dashes forward, pressing their lips together with unrelenting urgency. Her energy seeps into Bonnie.

They surge into each other, their bodies writhing, not so interested in stimulating each other as simply touching as much of each other as physically possible at any given moment. Marceline laughs, bright and clear and joyous, like nothing Bonnibel’s heard before. She fights to lay kisses across the skin of Marceline’s torso, breasts, and neck, even as Marceline fights to stay on top where she can look and touch all she can as much as she pleases.

Bonnibel gasps, freezing as her back arches against something more specific than their wild frenzy. She looks down to take account of where all participating body parts are located. Marceline looks up at her curiously, lips closed over a nipple while her hand gently twists the other. Yet as invigorating as those touches are, Bonnibel doesn’t think that’s what grabbed her attention.

Noticing Bonnibel’s trembling confusion, Marceline lifts her head, licking once more as she departs. She leans over onto her side, keeping her hand in place. _Thankfully,_ Bonnie thinks. By moving, however, Bonnibel can now see past Marcy’s shoulders, can see where her other hand is.

“Oh,” Bonnibel squeaks. Marceline smiles dangerously this time, letting her fingers gently tug at Bonnibel’s pubic hair, hidden underneath the bikini bottom still present. She flips her hair to the side, replaces her lips against Bonnibel’s other nipple—thus relocating the hand that was there to hold Bonnie’s shoulder—and lets Bonnibel watch. Bonnie gasps, “Marcy!”

“Mmhmmm?” Fingers edge around Bonnibel’s vulva, toying with unseen curls, leaving Bonnibel in eager tension. Marceline, still rolled on her side, curls closer until her body presses against Bonnie’s side. She cradle’s Bonnie’s waist and finally rubs her fingers against Bonnibel’s wet core.

“M-Marce!” Bonnie whimpers.

“What is it?” Marceline says, speaking against Bonnie’s breast. Two fingers dip just barely into Bonnibel, retreat, rub the wet against Bonnie’s clit. High-pitched whines meet Marceline’s ears. She bites, holding the nipple in place as she flicks it with her tongue.

“Ah! Aaahh… Marceline, I…” Bonnie gasps, holding tight to Marceline’s head, trying to comb through her hair. That same smell, the one from her shirt, wafts over Bonnie, making her heart race.

“I’m listening.” The fingers return to Bonnibel’s entrance, reach inside. This time they stay there, still, as Marceline’s thumb takes their place rubbing circles around the bundle of nerves above. Bonnie can feel herself clinching and relaxing around Marcy’s fingers. She’s vaguely aware as well that Marceline’s hips sit atop one of her legs, and her leg is becoming wet and sticky.

“Fuck, Marcy!”

“Heh heh… Yes, Princess,” Marcy replies. Her fingers curl, pressing against the soft tissue within Bonnibel, slowly start edging in and out.

“Don’t… call me that.” Bonnibel smiles, loses herself to Marceline, until she’s bucking wildly in time with a Marceline’s rapid, bass-playing rhythm.

“Bonnibel,” Marcy coos. Feeling Bonnie spasm and slowly relax into the afterglow beside her, Marceline crawls up the bed. She lays on her side, her head propped up on Bonnie’s shoulder. Her hand, still wet and sticky, traces patterns across Bonnie’s abdomen, her shoulders, her cheeks.

            Bonnibel turns to Marceline with a look of sweet comprehension. As she curls up against Marcy, clinging to her, she knows that this feeling of comfort and release and freedom is something Marceline has wished to give to her for a long time. She does not know how to thank someone for such a gift so long in the giving.

            Marceline, who has lost Bonnie’s shoulder as a pillow, swallows hard as Bonnibel wraps around her tightly. Rolling onto her back, she carries Bonnie with her, combing fingers through her hair until the tangled up-do has been straightened out across Bonnie’s back. “Hey,” she says, lifting her head off the mattress, “Bon, you okay?”

            “Mhmm.”

            They lay together in silence for a time.

            “Thank you.”

            Marceline glances down. She gives Bonnie a squeeze. “Don’t mention it. I want to…”

            Bonnie hums happily.

            “Hey Bon?”

            “Yes?”

            Marceline licks her lips. “I think… I think Vandalism Records is going to offer the Scream Queens a deal. A record deal, I mean. Provided we go on tour first.” She continues to card through Bonnie’s hair. The repetitive movement feels therapeutic. “I thought… I’d still like to be back at the U next school year. Maybe we won’t be able to get that, I don’t know, but maybe we can tour just through the summer. My friend, Tuff, he’s managing a lot of things for the band, but he wouldn’t be able to travel with us since he runs a business so… I wondered if maybe, if you don’t have summer plans to build a nuclear reactor or something, if maybe you’d like to come with us?”

            Bonnibel hasn’t moved since Marcy started speaking, and it’s making her nervous.

            “Like… you could be the manager in Tuff’s absence or something?”

            Bonnie shifts, places her hands on either side of Marcy and pushes up. Marceline lets go of her immediately, propping herself up on her elbows as Bonnibel looks down on her. She grins, catching Bonnie’s wandering eyes. But she wonders if Bonnie can still hear her heart racing.

            “So,” Bonnie says, “Are you offering me a job?”

            “Um, maybe?”

            “You’re not sure?”

            “Mostly I—” Marcy starts, but finds her throat closing. _Oh get over it!_ she thinks. _You have put your fingers inside her, you butt, so just tell her!_ “I just thought that way we’d be able to see each other this summer and… be together.”

            Bonnibel thinks for a moment, leaving Marceline to twitch nervously. Then, with a slight, decisive nod, Bonnie lowers her mouth to Marcy’s ear.

            “Aahh!” Marcy gasps, feeling her body tighten at the touch. As Bonnie’s hands stroke down her sides and grab her buttocks, as Bonnie’s lips trail across her face until they pull at her own, Marceline struggles to pay attention to what she had just been saying. “Is that a—” Bonnie kisses her deeply. “A no, then?” Marceline shudders, feeling Bonnie position a thigh between her legs. She rolls her hips against it instinctively, confused and delighted by the young woman above her.

            Bonnibel’s hands, still holding on to Marcy’s hips, encourage her to rub against Bonnie’s thigh again. Marcy cries out, bites her lip.

            “Are we together?” Bonnibel whispers, shifting her weight in time with Marceline. She lifts one of her hands up to Marcy’s chest.

            “Uhn! I…” Marcy breathes. “Seems like it.”

            “Marcy,” Bonnie groans against her neck, her hands massaging Marcy roughly. “Are we?”

            Marceline suspects Bonnie’s movements are rough because of inexperience, but she really doesn’t care. This feels amazing. Sparks course through her body, massing at her toes, her lower abdomen, and the base of her neck. “Fuck yeah, we are!”

            “If we are,” Bonnie starts. Marcy swears under her breath as Bonnie’s hands force her to move faster. “Then we’re responsible for each other. And to each other. That’s how relationships work.”

            “Uh-huh,” Marcy breathes, trying to pay attention despite the rabid energy flashing within her.

            “And if I’m responsible to you—to care about you and… and love you,” Bonnibel continues.

            “Bonniiiiiiiie!”

            “Then other things have to fall to the wayside,” Bonnie says. Suddenly, she stops stimulating Marceline, and the black-haired woman groans in protest. “Responsibility demands sacrifice,” she says. She looks Marcy in the eye, and despite her aggravation, Marcy pays close attention now.

            “So that’s a yes? You’ll come?”

            Bonnie smiles. “I’ll go with you, Marcy.”

            Marcy laughs triumphantly, her body bucking in excitement.

            “The question is how to make you come,” Bonnie says.

            _Whoa_ , Marcy thinks. But she smiles confidently up at Bonnibel, even as her body trembles. “Want a hint?”

            Bonnie smiles politely.

            Marcy wraps her arms around Bonnie’s neck, kissing her lips, thrusting her tongue into Bonnie’s mouth with reckless appetite. When they finally pull apart, Bonnie’s lips are swollen, red as a ripe strawberry. With a lick of her lips and an arched brow, Marcy says, “Take those lips and that tongue and get between my legs.”


End file.
